m 


PRUDENCE. 


••.- 


"THERE   WAS   A   CERTAIN   SPLENDOR    IN   HER   EYES." 

[PAGE  15. 


PRUDENCE 


A  STORY  OF  ESTHETIC  LONDON 


BY 

LUCY   C.  LILLIE 


ILLUSTRATED  BY  GEORGE  DU  MAURIER 


NEW   YORK 

HARPER  &   BROTHERS,  FRANKLIN   SQUARE 
1882 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1882,  by 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Page 
"  THERE  WAS   A   CERTAIN   SPLENDOR   IN  HER  EYES  "    .    Frontispiece. 

MRS.  BOYCE   AND    MISS   ARMORY II 

"I  THINK  YOU  ARE  A  MAN  TO  WHOM  ONE   CAN  SPEAK   FEAR- 
LESSLY"  '  .    103 

"  MR.  FIELDING,  WHAT  DO  YOU  THINK  OF  THESE  PICTURES?".  lOQ 
"GOD  BLESS  YOU!" 155 

"IT  WAS   ODD  TO   SEE   HOW   COMPLETELY  PRUDENCE   FOR- 
SOOK HER  BRIEF  PERIOD  OF  ESTHETIC  LIGHT"    .     .     .   i;i 


2047036 


PRUDENCE. 


i. 


THE  first  time  Prudence  Marlitt  appeared  in 
English  society  was  at  a  dance  at  the  Jamison- 
Poynsetts'.  Mrs.  Poynsett,  as  every  one  knows, 
is  the  wife  of  the  famous  R.A.,  and  is  herself  a 
leader  of  aesthetic  fashion  in  that  region  hovering 
between  Kensington  and  Belgravia,  and  known  as 
"  Passionate  Brompton."  The  highest  forms  of  art, 
culture,  and  even  science  are  expressed  within  the 
Poynsetts'  hospitable  walls ;  all  the  impressive  so- 
cial influences  of  the  day  gather  new  force  when 
diffused  by  Mrs.  Poynsett  or  her  daughters ;  young 
poets  can  put  their  emotional  impressions  into 
verse  when  gazing  upon  the  dado  of  Mrs.  Poyn- 
sett's  inner  drawing-room ;  artists  can  gather  that 
inspiration  needed  for  their  work  by  studying  the 
willowy  angles  and  sadly  sunken  eyes  of  the  elder 
Miss  Poynsett ;  yet  there  is  nothing  oppressive  in 
the  suggestions  of  the  beautiful  house  —  in  the 
courtesy  and  grace  of  its  occupants.  They  are 


10  PRUDENCE. 

"  aesthetes,"  and  they  look  forward  to  something 
even  more  aesthetic  in  the  future,  but  the  young 
ladies  are  very  young,  and  still  human  enough  to 
enjoy  a  dance ;  so  that  once  or  twice  in  the  season 
cards  are  issued  for  an  evening  which  will  include 
some  hours  devoted  to  Terpsichore.  But,  at  the 
same  time,  Mrs.  Poynsett's  friends  well  know  what 
is  required  of  them,  even  on  such  an  occasion,  in 
the  way  of  costume.  The  feelings  as  well  as  the 
tastes  of  the  company  must  be  consulted ;  for  are 
we  not  so  delicately  organized  to-day  that  we  must 
be  saved  any  kind  of  artistic  shock  ?  As  Barley 
Simmonson,  a  constant  visitor  at  the  Poynsetts',  re- 
marked, "  There  is  power  to  pain — actually  to  pain 
— in  that  shade  of  our  youth  known  as  magenta  or 
solferino,  just  as  there  is  the  power  to  lull  anguish 
into  calm  " — and  here  Mr.  Simmonson  smiled  with 
ineffable  tenderness — "  in  Bordone's  reds." 

On  the  evening  in  question  two  American  la- 
dies made  their  way  rather  late  toward  the  room 
where  Mrs.  Poynsett  was  receiving  her  guests. 
They  approached  with  that  air  which  comes  less 
of  beauty  and  grace  than  of  social  distinction. 
They  were  both  young,  and  handsome  as  Ameri- 
can women  are  expected  to  be  abroad,  but  the 
younger  and  unmarried  sister  had  the  charm  of  a 
peculiar  piquant  intellectuality.  It  was  difficult  to 
say  wherein  this  was  expressed.  She  had  delicate, 
dark  eyebrows,  rather  inclined 'to  be  supercilious; 


PRUDENCE.  13 

eyes  and  lips  ready  enough  to  be  merry,  yet  full  of 
thought ;  a  nose  and  chin  that  were  nearly  fault- 
less ;  and  a  profusion  of  the  softest  brown  hair 
coiled  a  la  Grecque  low  upon  her  neck.  She  was 
bright  and  lovely,  and  I  am  sure  she  knew  pre- 
cisely how  valuable  such  adjuncts  to  a  young 
lady's  appearance  in  society  are,  yet  there  was  not 
a  touch  of  arrogance  in  her  manner.  She  wore  her 
costume  of  pale  yellow  brocade,  with  its  flutterings 
of  old  lace  and  quaintly  wrought  silver  ornaments, 
as  easily  as  she  would  have  worn  her  riding-habit 
in  the  Row ;  yet  something  half  amused  at  her 
own  way  of  contributing  to  the  artistic  effect  of 
the  company  was  evident  in  the  pose  of  her  charm- 
ing head,  in  the  smile  which  curved  her  pretty 
mouth.  The  elder  lady,  whose  good  looks  were 
of  the  reddish-blonde  type  so  favored  to-day,  was 
dressed,  with  great  effect,  in  a  gown  the  cut  and 
color  of  which  reminded  one  strongly  of  Titian's 
women.  She  was  an  ardent  disciple  of  the  new 
gospel  of  the  "  aesthetes,"  and  felt  herself  one  of  a 
chosen  few,  but  she  moved  with  the  languorous 
grace  necessary  when  one  has  yards  of  plush  and 
satin  to  consider,  and  seemed  to  have  no  idea  or 
desire  of  creating  a  sensation.  The  dark  and  the 
blonde  beauty,  however,  were  peculiarly  charm- 
ing as  they  came  up  the  crowded  corridor,  and 
the  names,  "  Mrs.  Boyce  and  Miss  Armory,"  duly 
announced,  caused  a  certain  degree  of  interest 


14  PRUDENCE. 

among  the  people  gathered  about  the  first  door- 
way. 

"At  last!"  said  Mrs.  Poynsett,  holding  out  a 
friendly,  tired  hand.  "  Now,  my  dear,  where  is 
your  wicked  husband?" 

"  Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Boyce,  with  her  pretty  smile, 
"  he  was  so  sorry !  But  at  the  last  moment  an 
American  friend  turned  up,  and  he  could  not 
possibly  leave." 

"  And  are  you  ready  to  dance,  Helena  ?"  said 
the  hostess,  looking  at  Miss  Armory  with  fond  ad- 
miration. "  You  American  girls  are  always  in  de- 
mand. There  is  young  Benison  looking  at  you, 
and  I  know  what  that  means." 

"  Of  course  I  am  ready  to  dance,"  said  Helena 
Armory,  "and  Dick  Benison  is  a  capital  partner; 
but,  dear  Mrs.  Poynsett,  can't  we  stay  here  a  mo- 
ment to  look  on  ?  It  is  all  so  beautiful !" 

A  dance  necessarily  makes  decoration  out  of 
place,  but  in  this  first  room  enough  of  color  re- 
mained to  give  an  Oriental  splendor  to  the  scene. 
Heavy  and  pompous  as  were  the  fabrics,  the  wax- 
lights  and  the  languid  fragrances  filling  the  room 
softened  the  effect,  making  it  almost  like  some  bit 
of  dream-land.  Against  the  rich  and  somewhat  fan- 
ciful background  the  artistic  figures  were  most  ef- 
fective. In  the  distance  the  dancers  were  whirling 
to  the  strains  of  the  "  Sweethearts  "  waltz.  Nearer 
to  the  archway  in  which  Miss  Armory  and  her  sis- 


PRUDENCE.  15 

ter  were  standing  were  various  suggestive  groups : 
pretty  girls  in  quaint  gowns ;  dowagers  splendid  in 
diamonds  and  aesthetic  colors  \  one  or  two  fashion- 
able beauties  reviving  the  last  century  in  their 
attire  and  their  frivolous  animation ;  people  with 
nothing  to  do  or  to  say  trying  to  extract  intensity 
from  the  brilliancy  of  their  surroundings.  Miss 
Armory  was  used  to  such  companies,  and  knew 
what  to  expect,  yet  she  enjoyed  looking  about 
her  with  good-humored  criticism  before  she  re- 
sponded to  the  appeals  of  young  Mr.  Benison. 

It  was  in  this  first  careless  survey  of  the  room 
that  Prudence  Marlitt  came  in  view  —  a  girl  of 
twenty  one  or  two,  dazzlingly  pretty,  sitting  against 
a  gorgeous  screen,  which  made  a  background  whose 
brilliancy  seemed  only  to  enforce  her  own.  She 
was  gazing  eagerly  at  her  companion,  Barley  Sim- 
monson  himself,  and  her  uplifted  face  shone  be- 
neath the  radiance  of  candle-light  with  charming 
effect.  There  was  a  certain  splendor  in  her  eyes, 
a  Southern  tint  in  complexion  that  made  her  red- 
dish-brown hair  peculiar ;  but  Miss  Armory's  mem- 
ory, stored  with  all  that  was  precious  in  Continental 
art,  failed  her  as  she  tried  to  think  of  anything  so 
lovely  as  this  girl  sitting  in  a  shabby  white  muslin 
gown  against  the  splendid  screen.  She  was  talk- 
ing to  Simmonson  with  an  air  that  was  simply 
adorable ;  there  came  a  dimple  in  her  cheek  as  she 
smiled,  showing  her  pretty  teeth  ;  a  childlike  ra- 


16  PRUDENCE. 

diance  was  about  her  mouth  and  eyes ;  but  it  was 
difficult,  thought  Miss  Armory,  to  decide  whether 
the  girl  were  thoroughly  versed  in  the  arts  of  co- 
quetry, or  a  Miranda,  "  untravelled  and  unseen." 

"  Oh,  I  see  whom  you  are  looking  at,"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Poynsett.  "  That  is  an  American  girl — a  Miss 
Marlitt.  I  think  she  is  the  loveliest  creature  on 
earth.  But  was  there  ever  such  a  gown  !" 

"  Lovely !  She  is  perfect,"  said  Mrs.  Boyce.  "  An 
American  ?  Helena,  we  knew  some  Marlitts  once." 

"  I  am  really  quite  bothered  about  her,"  said  Mrs. 
Poynsett,  sinking  her  voice.  "  All  the  men  in  the 
room  are  talking  about  her;  yet,  do  you  know,  she 
has  come  entirely  alone !  Quite  unchaperoned  !  I 
suppose  it  might  do  in  America,  but  it  certainly 
looks  odd  in  London." 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Poynsett,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Boyce, 
opening  her  gray  eyes  widely,  "  it  would  not  do 
in  America.  There  must  be  some  mistake ;  and 
she  looks  such  a  perfect  lady !  Did  you  invite  a 
chaperon  ?" 

"  Of  course.  She  has  just  come  to  London  with 
her  aunt,  a  Mrs.  Crane.  They  brought  a  letter  to 
me  from  Colonel  Wheeler;  but  all  this  divine  young 
thing  did  when  she  appeared  this  evening  was  to 
apologize  for  her  aunt's  being  obliged  to  stay  at 
home.  A  cold  or  something!  In  a  minute  more 
I  had  to  introduce  half  a  dozen  men  to  her.  Bar- 
ley Simmonson,  as  you  see,  is  tremendously  taken 


PRUDENCE.  17 

with  her,  but  he'll  tell  every  man  at  the  'Arts' 
about  it  to-morrow. — My  dear  Helena,  how  lovely 
your  yellow  gown  is !  Quite  as  good  as  Ellen  Ter- 
ry's.— How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Jenness?" 

And  Mrs.  Poynsett's  kindly  hand  began  again  to 
be  engrossed.  Mrs.  Boyce  and  her  sister  remained 
silent  a  moment,  watching  Prudence  with  deep  ad- 
miration. Mrs.  Boyce  is  a  most  decided  person. 
To  watch  her  languid  movements,  her  slow  smile, 
her  sleepy  gray  eyes,  you  would  never  think  her 
capable  of  any  impulsive  action,  but  at  heart  she  is 
one  of  the  most  impetuous  women  I  know.  When 
Mrs.  Poynsett  had  finished  speaking,  there  was  a 
peculiar  glow  upon  Mrs.  Boyce's  face. 

"  Helena,"  she  said  to  her  sister,  "  wait  here  a 
moment.  I  think  I  can  arrange  it  with  that  poor 
child." 

And  so  saying,  she  deliberately  crossed  the  room 
to  the  peacock  screen,  where  she  smiled  pleasantly 
upon  Prudence  and  Lord  Bairham's  heir. 

Barley  Simmonson  was  conducting  the  conver- 
sation ;  but  Miss  Marlitt  was  listening,  with  her 
charming  smile  and  little  words  now  and  then  of 
assent,  wonder,  dissent  perhaps,  or  interrogation. 
Into  the  conversation  Mrs.  Boyce  came  with  a 
graceful  sweep  of  her  draperies  which  attracted 
Simmonson's  attention. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said,  in  her  soft  voice,  laying  one 
hand  upon  Miss  Marlitt's  shabby  sleeve,  "  I  don't 

2 


18  PRUDENCE. 

think  I  can  let  you  dance  much  more  to-night;" 
and  with  that  the  accomplished  hypocrite  beamed 
upon  the  young  man.  "  Don't  persist,  Mr.  Sim- 
monson  ;  I  can't  let  Miss  Marlitt  tire  herself,  or 
her  aunt  will  think  me  a  very  poor  chaperon." 

And  before  any  one  of  the  three  had  time  to 
think  about  it,  Barley  Simmonson  had  bowed  and 
moved  away.  Prudence  had  made  room  for  her 
impromptu  chaperon  upon  the  crimson  bench,  and 
was  looking  at  her  with  a  wondering,  lovely  gaze. 
Mrs.  Boyce  was  perfectly  undisturbed. 


PRUDENCE.  19 


II. 


"MY  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Boyce,  "you  must  excuse 
me  for  what  I  have  done ;  I  thought  you  would 
be  glad  afterward.  You  see,  in  London  a  girl  is 
criticised  for  coming  to  an  evening  party  alone, 
and — I  am  an  American  myself — I  know  how  Eng- 
lish people  can  talk  of  us  sometimes.  Do  you  un- 
derstand me  ?"  and  Alice  Boyce  looked  at  the  girl 
with  gentle  friendliness. 

.  Little  Miss  Marlitt  flashed  one  of  her  sweet 
looks  upon  her  new  friend.  There  was  humility, 
gratitude,  comprehension,  in  her  glance. 

"  Oh,  of  course  ,  I  understand!"  she  exclaimed, 
quickly,  putting  one  of  her  hands  into  Mrs.  Boyce's. 
"  How  good  of  you  !"  The  color  swept  across  the 
girl's  cheeks ;  her  voice  trembled.  "  How  thought- 
ful !  Oh,  thank  you  !  Yes,  yes,  I  know.  My  aunt 
could  not  come,  but  she  said  it  would  be  too  bad 
to  disappoint  me ;  and  Jonas  Fielding,  a  friend  of 
ours,  brought  me  to  the  door,  and  will  call  for  me 
at  one  o'clock.  Have  I  done  anything  very  dread- 
ful?" she  added,  wistfully,  and  cast  a  nervous  glance 
in  the  direction  of  Mrs.  Poynsett's  magnificent 
shoulders. 


20  PRUDENCE. 

At  this  Mrs.  Boyce  grew  very  encouraging.  She 
tried  to  set  the  girl  completely  at  ease,  and  there 
was  a  charm  in  her  manner  which  Prudence,  in 
spite  of  her  bewilderment,  felt  at  once.  She  look- 
ed at  the  pretty,  splendidly  dressed  young  woman 
with  soft  gratitude. 

"  I  am  Mrs.  Boyce,"  said  that  lady, "  and  you  must 
consider  me  your  chaperon  for  the  evening.  Now 
will  you  tell  me  all  about  yourself,  dear?  I  shall 
see  that  your  partners  are  not  all  frightened  away." 

Prudence  gave  Mrs.  Boyce's  hand  another  press- 
ure. "There  is  not  much  to  tell,"  she  said,  sim- 
ply ;  and  she  told  her  meagre  little  history  with 
an  air  of  charming  frankness.  To  begin  with,  she 
said  they  came  from  Ponkamak,  in  Maine;  she  was 
an  orphan,  educated  by  Jonas  Fielding's  father,  and 
lately  she  had  lived  with  her  aunt,  Mrs.  Crane  ;  she 
had  been  at  school  in  Boston  for  a  year ;  she  had 
taught  school  herself  for  three  or  four  months. 
Although  these  seemed  but  the  dullest  outlines, 
there  really  was  little  shading  to  put  in.  Prudence 
Marlitt,  up  to  the  present  hour,  had  certainly  led 
the  colorless  existence  which  with  so  many  Ameri- 
can women  in  the  country  grows  grayer  and  grayer 
as  years  go  by.  She  talked  of  herself  with  abso- 
lute simplicity,  yet  with  an  air  that  showed  her 
practical  common-sense.  Mrs.  Boyce  understood 
her  perfectly :  she  had  thought  out  life,  but  had 
never  lived  ;  she  had  read  and  studied  hard,  no 


PRUDENCE.  21 

doubt,  with  no  opportunity  for  exchanging  an 
idea;  and  now  she  was  unquestionably  the  most 
charming  object  in  one  of  the  most  renowned 
drawing-rooms  of  London.  The  suggestiveness  of 
it  all  was  to  Mrs.  Boyce  peculiarly  striking. 

"  My  aunt  is  very  much  interested  in  women's 
rights,"  Miss  Marlitt  continued,  seeing  that  her 
listener's  interest  grew,  "  and  also  in  the  interna- 
tional copyright.  She  has  corresponded  with  a 
great  many  distinguished  people  about  it.  It  is 
so  nice  to  have  their  autographs.  We  are  hoping 
to  see  Carlyle." 

"  That  will  be  very  nice,"  assented  Mrs.  Boyce. 
And  then  she  added :  "  I  see  my  young  friend  Mr. 
Benison  is  looking  at  me  as  if  he  thought  me  very 
cruel  not  to  introduce  him.  He  dances  very  well, 
and  is  such  a  nice  fellow !" 

"  Oh,  thank  you  !"  said  Miss  Marlitt,  with  enthu- 
siasm. She  turned  her  pretty  head,  following  the 
direction  of  Mrs.  Boyce's  glance  to  the  door-way, 
in  which  a  tall,  yellow-haired  young  Yorkshireman 
stood  talking  with  Miss  Armory.  The  two  were 
not  saying  very  much,  but  it  was  certainly  about 
Prudence  Marlitt. 

"  I  never  saw  so  lovely  a  girl  anywhere,"  pro- 
nounced honest  Dick,  with  enthusiasm. 

"  There  isn't  any  one  in  the  room  like  her,"  said 
Helena  Armory,  "  and  I  know  you  want  to  be  in- 
troduced— only  I  don't  know  her." 


22  PRUDENCE. 

"  Well,  she  and  your  sister  are  great  friends," 
said  the  young  man. 

"  We  will  go  over  and  melt  Alice's  heart,  then," 
said  Miss  Armory,  and  accordingly  she  led  the  way 
toward  Prudence.  The  introduction  was  quickly 
effected,  and  in  a  moment  Prudence  was  among 
the  dancers,  being  whirled  stoutly  around  by  the 
young  Englishman.  At  first  she  protested  she 
could  not  dance — as  they  did  in  England. 

"But  we  know  the  '  Dip,"  "  pleaded  Mr.  Benison. 

"The  '  Dip?'  "  responded  little  Prudence.  It  so 
happened  that  Miss  Marlitt  was  running  about  in 
short  frocks  on  the  beach  at  Ponkamak  when  the 
"  Dip  "  went  out  of  fashion  in  America. 

"  Well,  then,  let  us  try  a  deux-temps"  said  Dick ; 
and  Prudence,  who  was  young  and  light-hearted,  ea- 
sily submitted  to  such  a  pleasant  effort.  Away  they 
went.  Mrs.  Boyce  and  her  sister,  sitting  against 
the  peacock  screen,  and  talking  to  half  a  dozen 
men,  looked  from  time  to  time  into  the  other  room, 
where  the  girl's  shabby  muslin  and  beautiful  face 
were  constantly  to  be  seen  among  the  dancers.  By 
this  time  Miss  Armory  was  quite  ready  to  announce 
herself  as  Prudence  Marlitt's  friend.  The  young 
lady  had  her  usual  circle  of  admirers,  to  whom  she 
talked  with  that  mixture  of  frankness  and  piquan- 
cy which  made  her  charming.  She  knew  a  little  of 
all  the  topics  floating  in  the  aesthetic  circle,  and  a 
great  deal  of  some  of  them,  and  she  was  keenly  in- 


PRUDENCE.  23 

terested  in  everything  people  had  to  say.  She  had 
been  long  enough  in  England  to  feel  herself  in  har- 
mony with  such  traditions  as  affect  society  and  ev- 
ery-day  life,  yet  her  American  instincts  were  always 
apparent,  giving  a  transatlantic  flavor  even  to  the 
way  in  which  she  wore  her  most  aesthetic  garments. 
Few  English  girls  in  society  were  more  popular 
than  Miss  Armory,  and  her  fortune  was  moderate 
enough  to  make  the  attentions  paid  her  very  com- 
plimentary. During  part  of  the  winter  and  in  the 
regular  season  she  and  her  sister,  Mrs.  Boyce,  pre- 
sided over  a  charming  house  in  Cornwall  Gardens, 
to  which  Americans  were  always  cordially  welcome, 
for  neither  of  the  two  women  had  learned  the  art 
of  patronizing  her  country  people,  while  she  as- 
sumed to  be  thoroughly  one  with  them  in  feeling 
and  tradition.  During  the  hot  months  of  the  year 
Miss  Armory  was  always  with  a  cousin,  who  was 
keenly  addicted  to  Continental  travel ;  and  for  a 
certain  number  of  weeks  the  young  lady  was  to 
be  found  in  two  or  three  very  fine  country  houses, 
where,  though  she  never  hunted,  she  was  fond  of 
riding,  and  was  famous  in  the  organization  and  per- 
formance of  private  theatricals.  Mrs.  Boyce's  mar- 
riage, of  course,  had  been  the  reason  of  her  orphan 
sister's  coming  to  live  in  England.  Mr.  Boyce  was 
a  wealthy  Cornishman,  who  had  met  his  charming 
wife  while  doing  legation  duty  in  Washington. 
Helena  was  only  a  girl  of  seventeen  then,  with  si- 


24  PRUDENCE. 

lent,  awkward  beauty,  and  a  fixed  intention  to  be 
philanthropical.  It  was  well  known  among  her  sis- 
ter's friends  that  she  had  already  refused  two  or 
three  brilliant  offers,  and  made  the  determination 
calmly  never  to  marry.  Whether  English  life  had 
changed  her  views  it  was  hard  to  say ;  she  theo- 
rized a  little  more,  and  acted  much  less,  and  cer- 
tainly never  wilfully  encouraged  the  men  who  had 
laid  their  hearts  at  her  feet ;  but  her  manner  had 
developed  into  self-possessed  brilliancy.  People 
declared  her  prettier  and  more  fascinating  than 
ever  since  aestheticism  had  crept  across  the  land, 
but  more  inscrutable.  "  I  don't  know  what  it  is 
she  wants,"  Mrs.  Boyce  would  say,  with  resignation, 
when  asked  by  some  interested  lady  friend  why 
Helena  did  not  marry. 

"  I  am  too  worldly — that  is  it,"  Helena  would 
always  answer  to  such  importunities.  "  Don't  you 
see  I  love  life  so,  I'm  afraid  of  losing  something  by 
giving  myself  into  a  poor  man's  keeping  —  or  an 
uninteresting  man's — or  a  tyrannical  man's — and 
then,  I'm  too  worldly." 

This  was  the  young  lady  who,  standing  with  a 
little  circle  of  admirers  about  her  at  Mrs.  Poyn- 
sett's,  determined  to  assert  herself  as  Prudence 
Marlitt's  friend.  She  was  rarely  capricious,  yet 
this  sudden  feeling  of  friendship  was  certainly 
impulsive. 

"  Mr.  Simmonson,"  she   said,  sedately,  to  that 


PRUDENCE.  25 

young  man,  "  if  you  really  wish  to  know  Miss  Mar- 
litt  well,  you  will  have  to  be  most  attentive  to  me. 
I  am  going  to  be  a  perfect  Cerberus." 

"  Charming  !"  said  Lord  Bairham's  heir.  "  Then 
there  will  be  double  satisfaction  in  attentions  to 
Miss  Marlitt." 

"  What  an  obvious  compliment !  All  the  same, 
I  suppose,  I  should  have  felt  slighted  if  you  had 
neglected  the  chance.  How  does  your  Grosvenor 
work  go  on  ?" 

"  Languidly,"  said  Barley  Simmonson,  slowly. 
"  The  subject  has  less  —  less  of  soul  —  than  I 
thought.  Nothing  responds,  as  it  were,  to  the 
feeling  I  put  into  the  execution  of  the  work." 

"  I  wish  I  knew  what  to  suggest,"  said  Miss  Ar- 
mory. "  Shall  I  come  and  read  aloud  Uhland  to 
you,  or  play  Raff?" 

"  What  a  sweet  idea !"  said  the  young  artist. 
"  That  would  be  too  delightful.  Won't  you 
dance  now,  Miss  .Armory  ?  Our  waltz  is  half 
over." 

And  so  the  young  lady  allowed  herself  to  be 
carried  off  to  the  dancers,  where  she  passed  Miss 
Marlitt,  radiant  upon  Dick  Benison's  arm. 

Before  the  evening  was  over,  the  young  girl  from 
Ponkamak,  sternly  chaperoned  by  Mrs.  Boyce,  had 
made  a  multitude  of  friends,  and  given  her  address 
a  dozen  times  to  different  people.  Mrs.  Field  Mow- 
bray,  whose  Queen  Anne  house  in  Kensington  is 


26  PRUDENCE. 

an  aesthetic  centre,  declared  herself  fascinated  by 
the  girl's  beauty  and  charm  of  manner. 

"  My  dear,"  she  whispered  to  Miss  Armory,  "  the 
child  is  like  the  Pompeiian  Psyche." 

Poor  little  Prudence !  After  the  fashion  among 
the  "  aesthetes  "  of  the  day,  she  was  likened  to  ev- 
ery type  of  beauty  since  the  days  of  our  first  par- 
ents. She  was  a  Titian,  a  Bordone,  a  Botticelli — 
even  a  Sir  Joshua  and  a  Greuze.  On  the  whole, 
Dick  Benison  came  nearest  to  the  truth  when  he 
called  her,  to  Miss  Armory,  "  a  little  darling."  Mrs. 
Poynsett  fully  appreciated  the  success  of  Mrs. 
Boyce's  coup.  "  But  suppose,"  said  the  latter  lady 
to  her  sister — "  suppose  they  should  turn  out  awful 
people  to  know — I  mean  the  international  copy- 
right lady — what  shall  I  do?  And  I  never  could 
pretend  I  didn't  know  the  poor  little  thing  after 
this." 

Miss  Armory  declared  she  was  not  afraid.  To 
her  the  whole  charm  of  the  evening  resolved  itself 
into  watching  or  talking  to  Prudence.  The  way  in 
which  the  girl  received  the  attentions  fluttering 
about  her  was  beautiful.  She  had  a  smile,  a  bright 
word,  a  gay  little  laugh,  always  ready,  and  her 
cheek  glowed  with  simple,  heart-felt  pleasure.  The 
jargon  of  London  society  meant  nothing  to  her. 
Was  she  a  Bordone  ?  a  Titian  ?  She  may  have 
heard  the  terms,  but  they  implied  nothing  beyond 
civilities  and  kind  heart. 


PRUDENCE.  27 

"I  think  English  people  are  perfectly  lovely '/' 
she  said  once  to  Miss  Armory.  "And  yet  I  always 
thought  they  would  be  so  cold  and  reserved.  But 
then  you  have  been  here  so  long." 

"  I've  had  five  London  seasons,"  said  Miss  Ar- 
mory. "  I  love  the  people  dearly,"  she  added,  with 
hearty  meaning,  and  yet  she  would  have  liked  to 
say  a  cynical  word  of  warning  to  the  girl  beside 
her.  Not  for  an  instant  did  the  homage  paid  her 
occur  to  the  fresh  young  mind  as  subjective.  Miss 
Armory  would  fain  have  guarded  her  from  any 
chill,  any  disappointment,  for  she  well  knew  how 
the  girl's  American  mind  was  working.  She 
danced  two  or  three  times  with  Mr.  Simmonson, 
who  succeeded  better  than  young  Benison  in  teach- 
ing her  to  waltz. 

"  In  Ponkamak,"  she  said  to  him  once,  in  a 
breathless  pause,  "  we  dance  the  polka.  Are  you 
fond  of  it  ?" 

Mr.  Simmonson  explained  it  was  such  an  inartis- 
tic performance. 

"Inartistic?"  queried  Prudence,  lifting  beautiful 
puzzled  brows  to  the  young  man. 

"  Well,  it  has  no  purpose,"  he  said,  dreamily. 
"  Now,  Miss  Marlitt,  a  waltz  has  its  own  power 
of  harmonizing  thought  and  movement.  It  is  dif- 
ferent." 

Prudence  stood  still,  not  satisfied  with  herself, 
yet  wondering  what  to  say. 


28  PRUDENCE. 

'•"Well,"  she  said,  finally,  "I  suppose  Ponkamak 
is  countrified." 

And  then  the  two  drifted  on  again,  harmonizing 
thought  and  movement  charmingly,  to  judge  by 
Simmonson's  rapt  expression. 

A  little  later  Mrs.  Boyce  and  Miss  Armory  car- 
ried Prudence  away.  In  the  dressing-room  the  girl 
had  an  old  seal-skin  jacket  and  a  faded  pink  worst- 
ed cloud.  Helena  looked  at  the  latter  with  a  thrill 
of  remembrance.  She  could  see  herself,  one  of  a 
group  of  girls,  at  the  Cliff  House  in  L ,  Con- 
necticut, learning  that  stitch.  What  a  boon  the 
stitch  had  been  !  After  tea,  she  remembered,  they 
had  all  sat  out  on  the  piazza  in  crisp  white  gowns, 
plying  crochet -needles  and  comparing  progress. 
That  evening,  she  remembered,  the  stage  unex- 
pectedly deposited  Raymond  De  Kay,  who  had 
come  up,  in  spite  of  her  silence,  to  see — the  Cliff 
House,  he  said.  As  Prudence  Marlitt  framed  her 
beauty  in  the  worn  bit  of  wool,  Miss  Armory  stood, 
across  the  room,  a  quiet,  splendid  figure  in  white 
furs,  with  an  expression  few  of  her  English  friends 
were  familiar  with.  She  wondered,  as  they  made 
their  way  into  the  hall,  whether  she  were  fifty  in- 
stead of  twenty-five. 

Prudence's  cavalier,  Mr.  Jonas  Fielding,  was  wait- 
ing, and  Miss  Armory  instantly  regretted  the  slight 
feeling  of  shame  that  she  felt  on  beholding  one  of 
the  kindliest,  truest -hearted  men  she  ever  knew. 


PRUDENCE.  29 

But  the  typical  Westerner  is  not  ornamental  in  a 
hall-way  sombre  with  dull  colors,  lighted  by  wax- 
candles  and  the  flash  of  old  brass  and  steel.  Mr. 
Jonas  Fielding  stood  severely  straight  in  a  side 
door-way  against  an  Oriental  portiere.  He  was  a 
tall,  well-built  young  man,  with  a  fair,  quiet  face, 
rather  stiff  light  hair,  and  gentle  blue  eyes.  He 
typified  the  same  part  of  the  country,  the  same  in- 
fluences, which  had  produced  this  brilliant  girl,  with 
her  air  of  unconscious  right  to  wear  a  coronet  if 
one  were  offered  to  her.  They  had  been  bred  with- 
in sight  of  each  other's  door-ways,  yet,  as  Miss  Ar- 
mory felt  at  once,  for  some  subtle  reason  they  were 
as  far  asunder  as  the  poles.  Miss  Armory  did  not 
feel  equal  then  to  measuring  any  but  the  sugges- 
tive differences ;  she  could  not  define  Jonas  Field- 
ing beyond  the  momentary  effect  he  produced ; 
yet  in  some  ways  the  man's  appearance  startled 
her. 

He  was  a  curious,  forcible  suggestion  of  home 
— not  the  brilliant  life  of  Washington,  New  York, 
or  Boston,  which  was  in  effect  the  life  of  London, 
but  the  fervider,  more  intrinsically  American  life 
which  has  for  its  background,  as  it  were,  the  can- 
ons of  Colorado,  the  ranches  of  California.  He  op- 
pressed Miss  Armory  with  a  miserable  sense  that 
she  had  been  in  her  heart  of  hearts  guilty  of  some 
forgetfulness.  The  subtlety  of  her  feeling  was 
what  puzzled  her.  Yet  she  knew  that,  were  she 


30  PRUDENCE. 

to  meet  the  man  a  dozen  times,  she  would  hang 
her  head  for  very  shame. 

The  little  "  Bordone"  went  up  to  her  friend  with 
a  lovely  smile. 

"  How  good  of  you,  Jo !"  she  said,  putting  out 
one  shabby  glove.  "  I  am  so  much  obliged  !"  and 
then  she  turned  and  introduced  him  to  Mrs.  Boyce 
and  Miss  Armory.  Mr.  Fielding  bowed  and  shook 
hands  with  each  lady. 

"Am  I  very  late,  Prue?"  he  said,  gravely;  but 
his  mild  eyes  rested  upon  the  girl  as  on  some  joy- 
ful object. 

"  Oh  no,"  laughed  Prudence.  "  I've  had  a  per- 
fectly splendid  time.  Mrs.  Boyce  and  Miss  Armo- 
ry have  been  most  kind.  Do  you  know,  Jo,  it's 
awful  here  to  go  alone  anywhere ;  and  so  Mrs. 
Boyce  undertook  to  be  my  chaperon." 

She  laughed  as  she  half  whispered  the  words, 
and  blushed  prettily.  As  for  the  man,  the  color 
rushed  into  his  face  like  a  flame.  For  a  moment 
he  looked  as  if  he  would  carry  her  away  then  and 
there. 

"  It  is  all  right,"  said  Mrs.  Boyce.  "  I  hope 
I  may  be  her  chaperon  a  great  many  times 
yet." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,"  said  Jonas  Fielding,  in  a  deep, 
undemonstrative  tone. 

"Are  you  all  fixed,  Prue?"  he  asked,  presently; 
and  then,  lightly,  with  a  reverence  which  seemed 


PRUDENCE.  81 

to  beautify  the  dingy  color,  he  touched  the  pink 
cloud  near  her  cheek. 

Prudence  gave  a  little  extra  tie  to  the  cloud, 
and  laughed  and  nodded.  She  was  in  beaming 
spirits.  She  exchanged  fervent  good-byes  with 
Mrs.  Boyce  and  Miss  Armory,  and  begged  they 
would  call  early  the  next  day,  and  then  she  fol- 
lowed Jonas  Fielding  out  into  the  winter  starlight, 
where  he  had  a  cab  in  waiting.  As  the  young 
man  carefully  led  Prudence  to  the  cab  there  was 
something  quaintly  chivalrous  in  his  manner — his 
way  of  helping  her  to  gather  her  limp  draperies 
into  one  little  gloved  hand.  Were  they  faded 
and  poor  to  him  ?  He  touched  the  dingy  folds 
with  a  gesture  as  of  a  knight  kissing  his  lady's 
ribbon. 

Driving  toward  Cornwall  Gardens,  Miss  Armory 
was  peculiarly  despondent. 

"  I  think  it  is  the  greatest  pity  in  the  world," 
she  said  at  last,  "  that  there  should  be  any  Jonas 
Fielding.  Otherwise  that  girl  might  be  a  perfect 
success." 

"  She  will  be  in  spite  of  him,"  said  Mrs.  Boyce. 
"  I  never  saw  anything  lovelier." 

But  in  her  own  room,  half  an  hour  later,  Miss 
Armory's  despondency  merged  into  something 
like  melancholy. 

"  If  I  were  a  heroine  in  a  novel,"  she  thought, 
smiling  to  herself,  "  I  would  hunt  up  old  love-let- 


32  PRUDENCE. 

ters  and  burn  them.  As  it  is,  I  am  only"  —the 
girl  was  sitting  before  her  mirror,  and  she  regard- 
ed herself  dubiously — "  only  what  ?"  she  thought ; 
and  added,  as  she  blew  out  her  candle,  "  a  modern 
'aesthete' !" 


PRUDENCE.  33 


III. 

PRUDENCE  MARLITT  and  her  aunt  were  in  lodg- 
ings near  Russell  Square.  Early  the  next  day 
Mrs.  Boyce's  footman  rapped  at  the  door  of  the 
dull  old  house,  and  a  maid -servant,  down  at  the 
heel,  and  fragmentary  as  to  cap  and  hooks  and 
eyes,  admitted  Mrs.  Boyce  and  Miss  Armory. 
The  maid  carelessly  led  the  way  up  to  the  front 
drawing-room,  within  which  a  clear  American 
voice,  like  Prudence's  grown  thin,  bade  the  visit- 
ors enter. 

It  was  late  in  the  autumn,  yet,  singular  to  say, 
not  foggy,  but  the  sitting-room  looked  dingy  and 
comfortless  in  the  extreme :  a  fire  struggled  in 
the  grate ;  the  usual  ornaments  under  glass  cases ; 
antimacassars  and  prints  vied  with  green  and  red 
furniture  as  depressing  influences  ;  but  there  was 
a  piano  open  at  the  lighter  end  of  the  room,  and 
from  it  Prudence,  in  a  neat  little  walking -dress, 
was  turning  as  the  ladies  came  into  the  room.  As 
Miss  Armory  kissed  her,  she  encountered  the  brill- 
iant gaze  of  a  lady  to  whom  Prudence  smilingly 
introduced  her  new  friends.  Mrs.  Crane  was  a 
woman  of  about  forty,  tall  and  dark,  but  hand- 

3 


34:  PRUDENCE. 

some  enough  to  show  that  beauty  was  a  heritage 
among  the  Marlitts  of  Ponkamak;  but  she  had 
none  of  Prudence's  soft  charm.  She  was  thin, 
sharply  cut,  and  decided  in  manner ;  and  although 
she  smiled  a  great  deal,  and  with  a  very  brilliant 
effect,  her  voice  had  the  power  of  slowly  reducing 
her  hearers  to  subjection.  Helena  could  always 
recall  that  morning  visit  accurately  —  the  look  of 
the  room,  the  table  littered  with  papers,  the  piano 
with  Kucken's  "Good -night"  open  upon  it,  the 
big  windows  through  which  the  muffled  tones  of 
a  street  organ  were  to  be  heard,  Prudence  sitting 
in  the  shadow  of  the  dreary  fire,  Mrs.  Crane's  ea- 
ger glance  at  her  guests — yet  all  strong  impression 
seemed  to  be  of  that  lady's  voice  as  it  went  on 
and  on,  of  her  insistent  personality,  the  movement 
of  her  thin,  delicately  moulded  lips,  her  graceful 
domineering  gestures. 

"  Prudence  was  very  much  obliged  for  your 
kindness  last  night,"  Mrs.  Crane  said,  looking  from 
one  to  the  other  of  her  visitors.  "  I'm  sorry  it 
wasn't  the  thing  for  her  to  go  alone.  The  lady 
had  been  very  kind.  I  don't  know  as  I  should 
have  minded  a  girl's  coming  to  my  house  just  that 
way ;  still,  each  land  has  its  laws.  For  myself,  I 
claim  individuality." 

"  English  society  is  always  very  conventional 
outwardly,"  said  Mrs.  Boyce,  smiling. 

"  Oh,  I  know."     Mrs.  Crane  returned  the  smile 


PRUDENCE:  35 

like  the  flash  of  steel.  "  The  hollowest  things  can 
bear  a  strong  outer  glaze ;  but  I  feel  our  ideas  are 
best.  Still,  I'm  just  as  much  obliged  to  you.  I 
don't  go  out  much  in  the  evening  myself." 

"  There  are  a  great  many  social  opportunities  in 
the  daytime,"  said  Helena ;  "  so  many  people  re- 
ceive between  three  and  six." 

"  So  I  hear.  Those  are  busy  hours  with  me. 
You  know  I'm  very  much  interested  in  public 
questions.  I  am  to  address  a  company  at  Lady 
Frances  Holbrook's  to-day."  Mrs.  Crane  pro- 
nounced the  title  with  a  certain  disdainful  pre- 
cision. "  Not  that  her  being  what  they  call  Lady 
over  here  makes  any  difference  that  I  can  see ;  but 
she  is  an  excellent  woman.  I  claim  that  a  farmer's 
wife  in  America  is  equal  to  any  '  Lady,'  as  they 
have  it.  I  don't  admit  any  social  difference  be- 
tween the  Queen  and  myself,  and  I  think,  if  I  met 
her  to-morrow,  I  shouldn't  give  in  to  much  bow- 
ing down." 

Mrs.  Boyce  wondered  if  she  had  better  answer 
this  remark.  She  thought  of  one  or  two  fitting 
speeches  on  the  good -breeding  of  observing  the 
etiquette  of  foreign  countries ;  but  Mrs.  Crane's 
coldly  brilliant  gaze  seemed  to  check  the  utter- 
ance of  all  opinions.  She  only  said,  "  Is  it  to  be  a 
lecture  this  afternoon  at  Lady  Frances's  ?" 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Crane,  with  an  elaborate  man- 
ner, "  I've  been  asked  to  give  an  account  of  our 


36  PRUDENCE. 

public  schools  in  America,  and  I  have  prepared  a 
paper  to  read  on  the  subject.  Are  you  interested 
in  the  question  ?" 

"  A  little,"  Mrs.  Boyce  admitted.  "  But,  you 
see,  I've  been  six  years  away  from  home." 

"  But  you  read  the  papers — you  know  what  is 
going  on  ?  Oh,  Mrs.  Boyce,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Crane, 
putting  her  hands  tightly  together,  "  don't  say  you 
are  one  of  those  self-exiled  American  women  who 
fall  down  at  the  feet  of  foreign  aristocracy  to  wor- 
ship, and  forget  their  own  country !" 

Mrs.  Crane,  in  uttering  these  impressive  words, 
looked  at  the  graceful  figure  of  her  visitor,  taking 
in  a  swift  impression  of  her  charms,  and  I  am  afraid 
she  measured  her,  although  half -consciously,  as 
the  subject  for  "remarks"  in  Ponkamak.  Certain 
phrases,  indeed,  flitted,  half  formed,  through  her 
mind:  "An  American  lady,  a  beautiful,  popular 
woman  whom  I  met  in  London,"  etc. ;  or,  "  Few 
of  our  American  women  bear  transplanting ;"  or, 
"  English  associations  are  taking  so  strong  a  hold 
upon  our  American  women,"  etc. — various  opening 
sentences  occurred,  as  I  say,  to  the  lady's  fertile 
mind  while  she  looked  at  Mrs.  Boyce's  fair,  delicate 
face,  framed  in  the  reddish -blonde  hair  and  gray 
felt  bonnet. 

"  What  is  that  ?"  said  Miss  Armory,  turning  from 
her  chat  with  Prudence  by  the  fire. 

"Mrs.  Crane  is   disappointed  in  me,"  said  Mrs. 


PRUDENCE.  37 

Boyce.  "  But  I  hope  you  won't  think  all  that  of 
me,  really.  Do  you  know,  although  my  husband 
is  such  a  complete  Englishman,  and  my  children 
were  both  born  here,  I  am  considered  a  most  rabid 
American.  But  one  can  be  that,  I  hope,  even  in 
New  York,  and  yet  confess  to  ignorance  of  the 
public-school  question.  I  can  tell  you  all  you  like 
of  art  and  literature  and  science  over  there ;  and  I 
know  a  little  bit  about  the  President  too  !"  Mrs. 
Boyce  spoke  with  the  most  good-humored  cour- 
tesy. 

Mrs.  Crane  only  answered  by  an  earnest  gaze  at 
both  Mrs.  Boyce  and  Miss  Armory :  the  younger 
lady  had  begun  to  be  smilingly  interested  in  Pru- 
dence Marlitt's  aunt. 

"  Come  to  Lady  Frances  Holbrook's,"  said  Mrs. 
Crane,  with  a  gentle  persistence.  "  I  know  you  will 
be  interested." 

"  Oh,"  said  Miss  Armory,  "  I  am  sure  we  should 
be,  if  we  weren't  engaged  elsewhere.  Lady  Fanny 
is  a  great  friend  of  ours,  though  I  don't  think  she 
has  ever  quite  forgiven  me  for  laughing  at  her 
about  something  which  happened  in  Paris  last  year. 
There  was  a  meeting  of  ladies  who  discoursed  on 
rights,  and  of  course  Lady  Fanny  was  one  of  the 
principal  people.  You  know  how  eager  and  ear- 
nest she  is.  She  had  a  prominent  place  on  the 
platform.  We  were  in  the  audience,  and  I  could 
see  her  plainly.  She  had  been  the  prime  mover  in 


38  PRUDENCE. 

calling  the  meeting  together,  and  all  the  speeches 
tended  to  prove  that  women  can  project  them- 
selves utterly  into  any  public  question,  forgetting 
every  minor  point  of  feminine  interest.  I  am  sure 
the  arguments  were  admirable.  I  was  half  deter- 
mined to  go  home  and  declare  new  principles  my- 
self. Suddenly  I  saw  Lady  Fanny  looking  fixedly 
at  me.  Then  she  scribbled  something  on  a  bit  of 
paper,  and  in  a  moment  a  boy  brought  it  to  me. 
It  was  about  this :  '  Dear  Helena,  I  am  in  a  perfect 
fidget.  It  is  after  four  o'clock,  and  there  is  an 
occasion  of  pink  foulard  morning  wrappers  at  the 
Louvre,  and  I  know  there  won't  be  one  left.  I 
can't  get  away,  and  Janet  dislikes  to  go,  as  Lord 
Roxburghley  is  going  to  speak,  and  he  is  sure  to 
feel  hurt  if  she  leaves.  Can  you  go  over,  dear, 
and  secure  for  me  two,  and  find  out  if  all  the  white 
parasols  are  gone  !'  ' 

Mrs.  Crane  laughed — she  could  scarcely  help  it, 
indeed — yet  her  tone  was  not  encouraging. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  Lady  Frances  Holbrook  seems 
earnest ;  but  she  is  young  and  pretty,  and  I  sup- 
pose a  woman  of  fashion.  What  is  an  occasion  ?" 
and  Mrs.  Crane's  tone  varied  slightly.  "  Is  the 
Louvre  a  good  store — I  mean  for  black  silks  ?"  she 
said,  as  Mrs.  Boyce  explained  the  term.  "  I  won- 
der if  Paris  is  the  best  place  to  shop  in  ?  But  black 
silks  are  all  chance  now."  Mrs.  Crane  grew  a  little 
more  studious  of  Miss  Armory's  dark  plush,  and 


PRUDENCE.  39 

then  she  said  :  "This  brings  me  to  a  question  about 
Prudence,  Mrs.  Boyce.  She  needs  to  have  some 
things  bought,  if  she's  to  go  out  any  more  in  this 
English  society,  and  your  advice  would  be  valua- 
ble. From  what  she  tells  me,  they  dress  very  odd- 
ly here  in  company,  but  she  says  it's  pretty.  Real- 
ly, if  you  could  direct  her  a  little.  I  should  like  her 
to  have  everything  nice.  Last  night  it  was  all 
done  in  such  a  hurry,  just  anything  she'd  chanced 
to  bring  over." 

Now,  when  people  met  Prudence  Marlitt  later,  it 
was  always  a  source  of  astonishment  how  the  girl 
had  so  quickly  learned  the  art  of  aesthetic  dress. 
Mrs.  Boyce  and  her  sister  never  told  the  story  of 
that  morning's  expedition ;  how  they  carried  the 
girl  off  in  triumph  to  Regent  Street,  and  to  Bur- 
nett's and  Madame  J 's,  and  bought  those  pret- 
ty gowns,  the  long  cloak,  the  big  felt  hat,  which 
made  Prudence  more  than  ever  bewitching.  The 
shabby  muslin  was  packed  away,  and  before  Mrs. 
Boyce's  famous  conversazione  on  December  20,  Pru- 
dence had  a  gown  of  shining  satin,  devised  by  Miss 
Armory  in  what  she  considered  her  most  aesthetic 
moment. 

"  But  one  can't  help  thinking,"  Helena  remarked 
to  her  sister,  "  what  Jonas  Fielding  will  say  to  it." 

"  What  do  you  care?" 

"  A  great  deal,"  answered  Helena.  "  I'm  afraid — 
though  I  don't  know  why — he  will  think  her  crazy." 


40  PRUDENCE. 

"  Then  let  him  find  out  his  mistake,"  said  Mrs. 
Boyce.  The  two  were  matching  wools  in  South 
Kensington,  and  Helena  became  very  critical  of  the 
green  shades  offered  for  inspection. 

"  It  will  never  seem  a  mistake  to  him,"  she  said, 
with  a  sigh,  "  and  there's  the  pity  of  it.  This  will 
do,  Alice,  I  think.  Now  I  mean  to  make  those 
leaves  perfect.  Oh,  what  a  joy  it  is  !" 

Before  the  evening  of  the  conversazione  in  Corn- 
wall Gardens,  Miss  Armory  made  a  discovery  which 
delighted  her.  Going  into  the  dingy  sitting-room 
in  Guildford  Street  one  day,  she  found  Prudence 
singing,  and  it  ensued  that  the  girl  possessed  a 
lovely  voice.  The  compass  was  not  great,  but  it 
was  a  clear  mezzo,  full  of  impassioned  cadence — 
such  tones  as  our  Western  nightingales  often  un- 
consciously possess. 

"  The  very  thing  to  complete  her  character  here !" 
Helena  thought,  as  she  drove  home  that  afternoon. 
"Oh,  if  Jonas  Fielding  were  only  miles  away!" 

But  he  was  much  nearer.  Indeed,  half  his  time 
seemed  to  be  spent  in  Guildford  Street,  where  his 
broad  shoulders  wece  constantly  to  be  seen  darken- 
ing the  window,  while  Mrs.  Crane  wrote  letters,  and 
Prudence  worked  in  the  fire-light.  Sometimes  Miss 
Armory  encountered  him  on  the  dusky  staircase  as 
she  came  up  or  down.  He  was  unfailing  in  his  at- 
tentions to  his  friends ;  he  performed  endless  little 
services  for  them  with  a  quiet,  manly  air  that  took 


PRUDENCE.  Jrl 

away  all  idea  of  slavery ;  once  Helena  declared  she 
met  him  bringing  in  cold  chicken. 

"  Horrible  !"  said  Mrs.  Boyce. 

"  Well,  perhaps  it  wasn't  quite  that,"  answered 
Miss  Armory ;  but  it  was  something  to  eat — oranges, 
perhaps." 

"  Can't  you  forgive  the  man  for  existing  ?"  Mrs. 
Boyce  declared. 

"  No,  I  can't,"  said  her  sister.  "  He  is  my  '  Old 
Man  of  the  Sea.'  I  wonder  how  I  can  shake  him 
off?" 


42  PRUDENCE. 


IV. 

Miss  ARMORY,  in  declaring  that  Jonas  Fielding 
was  her  "  Old  Man  of  the  Sea,"  gave  rather  exag- 
gerated expression  to  the  estimate  she  had,  half- 
consciously,  made  of  the  man's  power.  Something 
about  him,  awkward  and  reserved  as  he  seemed, 
impressed  her  as  worth  considering,  and  in  induct- 
ing Prudence  into  the  ways  of  the  "  aesthetes,"  she 
felt  as  if  she,  in  some  fashion,  owed  him  an  apolo- 
gy. But  Miss  Armory's  mind  was,  as  she  knew 
herself,  morbidly  analytical.  She  was  given  to  tak- 
ing out  her  opinions  and  dissecting  and  elaborating 
them  for  her  own  amusement,  in  a  way  that  per- 
haps even  Mrs.  Boyce  would  not  understand ;  she 
was  perpetually  commenting  to  herself  on  the  mo- 
tive of  the  most  commonplace  actions ;  she  de- 
clared herself  without  a  creed,  yet  she  was  haunted 
by  a  sense  that  a  conscience  was  one  of  the  grand- 
est things  appertaining  to  human  nature,  and  that 
it  needed  some  unseen  awful  guidance.  In  the 
fine,  high-bred  face  of  the  girl  one  read  this  criti- 
cal, self-reproachful  faculty;  it  was  in  the  curve  of 
her  lips,  the  glance  of  her  dark  eyes.  She  had  an 
almost  passionate  sense  of  justice,  and  was  perpet- 


PRUDENCE.  43 

ually  telling  herself  that  her  whole  life  was  an  im- 
position upon  her  better  self ;  yet  nothing  in  the 
world  pleased  her  nearly  so  well  as  the  close  asso- 
ciation with  the  world  of  poetry,  pictures,  and  color 
in  its  varied  forms  which  was  called  "  aesthetic  Lon- 
don." Introducing  Prudence  Marlitt  into  this  vi- 
sionary region  afforded  Helena  the  keenest  delight ; 
but  as  the  evening  of  Mrs.  Boyce's  conversazione 
approached,  she  declared  she  felt  it  was  not  alto- 
gether merciful. 

"  I  am  not  rendering  unto  Jonas  the  things  that 
are  Jonas's,"  she  said  to  Mrs.  Boyce,  in  an  indolent 
moment,  when  they  were  taking  tea  together  in 
Helena's  dressing-room. 

"  I  wouldn't  be  wicked,  and  strike  my  breast  to- 
gether," said  Alice  Boyce. 

"  Oh  yes  you  would,  if  you  were  me,"  said  Hele- 
na. "  Don't  you  know  I  always  do,  and  I  take  a 
grim  pleasure  in  my  power  of  dissecting  my  own 
wickedness.  I  wonder  what  I  am  the  result  of — 
some  intense  Puritanism,  and  modern  American 
infidelity— and  it's  so  horrible  to  feel  one's  self  so 
real !" 

Mrs.  Boyce,  for  all  her  aestheticism,  had  calm, 
old-fashioned  views  on  religion. 

"  If  you  were  a  Roman  Catholic,  you'd  be  a 
Trappist,"  she  said,  laughing. 

"  I  know  I  should.  Sometimes  I  think  I  will  be 
— after  I've  finished  being  an  '  aesthete/  " 


44  PRUDENCE. 

As  for  Prudence  herself,  she  appeared  to  have  no 
doubt  at  all  about  the  fitness  of  her  appearance  at 
Mrs.  Boyce's  conversazione  in  the  shining  satin, 
short-waisted  and  short-sleeved,  with  her  hair  coil- 
ed high  in  those  careless  waves  which  we  see  in 
old  pictures,  wondering  at  the  craft  of  our  grand- 
mothers' handmaidens.  She  came  early,  as  Mrs. 
Crane  was  at  Lady  Fanny's,  and  "  received  "  with 
her  two  friends.  She  was  a  little  startled  by  the 
exquisite  beauty  of  the  rooms,  for  so  far  she  had 
only  seen  the  house  in  Cornwall  Gardens  in  dusky 
moments  and  dull  weather.  Mrs.  Boyce's  house  is 
not  too  large  a  one  to  have  pretty  rooms,  yet  there 
is  given  an  idea  of  space  :  doors  give  way  to  por- 
tieres, width  is  cherished,  corners  are  not  over- 
crowded. The  drawing-room  is  full  of  comfort  as 
well  as  beauty.  There  are  tranquil  places  in  it, 
with  deep  window-seats,  soft  carpets,  the  repose  of 
some  good  picture  or  dainty  bit  of  blue.  No  one 
is  ever  wearied  in  that  drawing-room ;  the  colors 
seem  to  have  gathered  there  of  themselves — a  slow 
procession,  as  it  were — tributes  to  the  harmonies 
of  the  house ;  and  whatever  of  art  or  decoration 
there  is,  is  of  the  best.  Prudence  seemed  thor- 
oughly to  fit  her  surroundings,  and  Miss  Armory, 
whose  spirits  rose  as  the  rooms  filled  and  aesthet- 
icism  was  heavy  on  the  air,  forgot  to  cry  "  Pec- 
cavi."  The  girl  was  utterly  lovely  in  her  dainty 
gown.  She  had  a  rich  cluster  of  yellow  roses  in 


PRUDENCE.  45 

her  belt,  soft  frills  of  yellowish  lace  in  her  neck  and 
sleeves,  and  long  white  Swedish  gloves.  The  effect 
was  perfect,  and  Miss  Armory,  when  the  first  hour 
of  receiving  was  over,  sat  down  in  the  embrasure 
of  a  window,  amused  and  interested  by  the  sensa- 
tion the  girl  was  creating.  Prudence  had  her  cir- 
cle of  admirers  very  soon,  but  she  sat  and  talked 
very  gayly,  betraying  no  special  interest  in  any  pe- 
culiar features  of  the  scene.  The  names  of  certain 
famous  people,  painters  and  scholars  and  musicians, 
had  awakened  a  keen  though  momentary  interest 
in  her;  but  Miss  Armory  could  not  decide  whether 
the  picturesqueness  appealed  to  anything  respon- 
sive in  her,  or  whether  it  only  amused  her — wheth- 
er she  "  believed "  in  the  cut  of  her  own  lovely 
gown,  or  whether  she  thought  she  had  "  dressed 
up."  It  was  hard,  indeed,  to  tell  just  what  effect 
this  concentrated  London  would  produce  on  her 
concentrated  Americanism. 

While  Miss  Armory  was  puzzling  over  the  subt- 
leties this  involved,  Prudence  glanced  at  her  with 
a  dimpling  smile,  and  Helena  observed  Barley  Sim- 
monson  approaching  them.  As  this  young  man 
has  something  especial  to  do  with  my  story,  I  am 
afraid  I  must  say  a  few  words  regarding  him.  He 
was  a  young  man  born  and  bred  to  such  expecta- 
tions that  it  would  be  cruel  to  criticise  his  indo- 
lence and  various  peculiarities.  At  thirty  he  had 
tired  of  the  usual  occupations  of  noble  youth,  and 


46  PRUDENCE. 

turned,  for  amusement  and  occupation,  to  art  and 
poetry,  doing  most  in  the  former:  painting  all 
the  pretty  women  of  society  in  water-colors  with 
a  sort  of  air  which  people  were  pleased  to  call 
charming.  "  A  Barley  Simmonson  "  was  already 
talked  about,  and  Kensington  and  Bond  Street 
shop  -  windows  displayed  his  "  heads,"  while  Lord 
Bairham  spoke  of  "my  nephew  —  the  artist,  you 
know — Simmonson."  Mr.  Simmonson  was  regard- 
ed as  an  authority  where  Intensity  and  Soul  were 
concerned,  and  his  countenancing  a  thing  made  it 
acceptable,  though  some  people,  like  Miss  Armory, 
were  inclined  to  say  he  needed  a  check.  "  If  I  were 
to  let  Barley  Simmonson  crawl  about  the  rug  of 
my  sitting-room,"  this  young  lady  once  said,  in 
calm  opposition  to  laudatory  remarks  upon  his 
ease  of  manner,  "  I  should  be  as  much  ashamed 
of  myself  as  I  was  of  him.  It's  all  very  well  to 
have  temperament,  but  Mr.  Simmonson  need  not 
lie  down  on  the  floor  when  he  reads  poetry  to 
me."  It  was  this  young  man  who,  with  a  certain 
melancholy  grace,  approached  Prudence,  and,  as  it 
were,  seemed  prepared  to  pose  his  lurid  Intensity 
against  her  fresh,  unaffected,  unthinking  nature. 


PRUDENCE.  47 


V. 


PRUDENCE  was  delighted  to  see  a  young  man 
whom  she  had  met  before. 

"  Oh,  how  do  you  do,  Mr.  Simmonson  ?"  she  said, 
and  held  out  her  long,  wrinkled  glove  prettily.  Mr. 
Simmonson  took  the  girl's  fingers,  holding  them  a 
moment  as  though  he  were  imprisoning  something 
precious. 

"  I  hope  Miss  Marlitt  is  well,"  he  said,  smiling. 

Prudence  nodded. 

"  Oh,  very"  she  added,  drawing  a  little  quick 
breath  of  satisfaction.  "  But  then,  I  am  always 
well."  She  laughed,  dimpling  and  coloring  like 
a  June  rose.  She  looked  utterly  lovely,  and  Mr. 
Simmonson  was  not  too  much  engrossed  by  the 
thought  surging,  or,  as  he  would  have  said,  "  pul- 
sating," within  him,  to  observe  it. 

"  Health  is  certainly  a  blessing,"  he  said,  sinking 
into  a  chair  near  Prudence  and  Miss  Armory.  "  I 
never  go  into  my  own  county — Somerset — without 
envying  the  peasant  his  vigor — envying,  that  is,  in  a 
subjective  way."  Prudence's  alert  brightness  was 
a  little  clouded,  but  she  listened  intently.  "  I  like 
to  see  the  peasant  at  his  work.  I  like  to  imagine 


48  PRUDENCE. 

how  he  feels,  walking  up  a  brown  hill — the  furze 
in  feathery  outline,  the  sky  streaked  with  red  and 
gray  lines — " 

"But  does  he  care  for  the  sky?"  said  Prudence, 
gayly.  Mr.  Simmonson  looked  at  her  with  a  pen- 
sive smile. 

"  But  I  like  him  better  with  these  surroundings," 
he  said,  gently  insistent.  "  It  is  then  his  vigor  ap- 
peals to  me:  given  the  picturesqueness  of  a  Som- 
erset heath,  a  windy  day,  and  that  plodding,  up- 
ward-toiling figure  excites  my  strongest  pulsations 
— then  his  vigor  is  not  repulsive." 

"  Repulsive !"  echoed  little  Prue.  She  smiled, 
but  looked  troubled.  "  I  didn't  suppose  vigor  had 
anything  repulsive  in  it." 

"  Abstractly,  of  course,"  assented  Barley.  "  Yet 
muscle  can  be  repulsive.  Who  can  be  soulful  and 
an  athlete?  The  mind  never  succeeds  unless  the 
body  suffers." 

"  Is  that  so  ?"  said  Prudence,  as  though  Mr. 
Simmonson  were  pronouncing  a  medical  opinion. 
"Yet  I  have  a  particular  friend — Jonas  Fielding, 
you  know,  Miss  Armory  —  and  if  his.  lungs  were 
only  stronger,  he'd  be  a  real  success  as  a  preacher, 
every  one  says.  He  looks  well  enough,  but  he's 
had  pneumonia  two  winters.  He  used  to  be  a 
Methodist,  but  he's  changed  his  views ;  he's  a 
Congregationalist  now — at  least,  a  sort  of  Congre- 
gationalist.  I  don't  think  he  accepts  quite  all 


PRUDENCE.  49 

they  do.  At  one  time  he  was  very  near  being  a 
Unitarian  ;  but  anyway  he's  a  real  believer,  and 
oh  !  it's  such  a  pity  his  lungs  are  weak !  He  was 
smarter  than  any  one  in  my  brother's  class  at  An- 
dover  or  Yale." 

Prudence's  sweet  eyes  had  real  light  in  them, 
but  the  effect  of  her  gentle,  rapid  utterances  was 
to  set  Mr.  Simmonson  dreamily  communing  with 
himself.  The  figure  of  Jonas  Fielding,  quondam 
Methodist,  full  of  genuine  meaning  and  real  life, 
as  opposed  to  his  visionary  peasant  toiling  upward 
against  a  red-streaked  sky,  made  the  conversation 
uninteresting.  He  sat  still  a  moment,  leaning  one 
arm  on  the  back  of  his  chair,  his  eyes  absently 
resting  on  Prudence,  whose  outlines  seemed  grad- 
ually to  impress  him  anew. 

"  The  flesh  comes  wonderfully  with  that  satin," 
he  said,  earnestly. 

Prudence  gave  a  little  start. 

"  I  wish  you  would  sit  for  me,  Miss  Marlitt. 
Your  head  is  perfect."  Mr.  Simmonson's  eyes 
were  mere  lines  between  their  fair  lashes  as  he 
looked  at  the  girl.  "  The  drawing  about  the  chin, 
too,  is  wonderfully  fine."  He  waved  a  significant 
thumb.  "  Couldn't  you  get  Mrs.  Boyce  and  Miss 
Armory  to  come  with  you  to  my  studio  ?  I  would 
give  much  for  some  impression  of  you  as  you  look 
to-night." 

What  might  have  been  Prudence's  answer  it  is 
4 


50  PRUDENCE. 

impossible  to  say.  By  this  time  Miss  Armory  was 
engaged  in  conversation  with  two  or  three  people 
on  the  other  side  of  her,  but  she  heard  Mr.  Sim- 
monson's  request.  As  she  flashed  an  amused,  in- 
quisitive glance  around  at  Prudence,  she  beheld 
Mrs.  Crane  approaching.  Mrs.  Crane  was  expen- 
sively dressed  in  a  black  silk,  about  which  there 
were  a  great  many  frills  and  fringes,  and  a  sugges- 
tion of  Sunday  church-going  as  well  as  tea-parties. 
Her  hair  was  done  up  in  a  myriad  of  finger  puffs. 
She  wore  some  very  good  Valenciennes  lace  in  her 
neck  and  sleeves.  As  she  crossed  the  room  she 
dispensed  brilliant  glances  right  and  left.  She 
was  evidently  in  the  very  height  of  good  spirits. 
By  the  time  she  shook  hands  with  Miss  Armory 
she  was  positively  laughing. 

"  Well !"  she  said,  standing  before  Prudence  ; 
and,  after  a  brief  glance  at  her  niece,  she  swept 
the  room  again  with  her  gold  eye-glass ;  then  she 
brought  her  amused  glance  back  to  Prudence, 
whose  charming  gown  she  studied  critically. 
"  Isn't  it  ridiculous  ?"  she  said,  very  good-humor- 
edly — "  ridiculous  /" 

Miss  Armory  offered  no  defence  of  her  pet  opin- 
ions, and  Prudence  only  looked  at  her  aunt  with  a 
sweet  beseeching  eagerness.  She  wanted  that  ab- 
sorbed lady  to  participate  in  her  pleasure  in  the 
evening.  Mrs.  Crane's  eyes  had  scanned  Mr.  Sim- 
monson  for  a  few  seconds  before  Prue  whispered 


PRUDENCE.  51 

to  Helena,  "  Do  introduce  this  funny  gentleman  to 
Aunt  Rebecca,"  and  Miss  Armory  had  taken  what 
seemed  to  her  a  most  interesting  suggestion.  Mr. 
Simmonson  had  already  risen,  and  was  standing 
beside  his  chair  when  Miss  Armory  made  the  in- 
troduction. Helena  was  much  entertained  by  ob- 
serving the  two  together,  exchanging  greetings. 
If  one  wanted  a  study  of  types,  it  was  assuredly  to 
be  found  here.  The  American  lady  intensely,  ea- 
gerly alert,  as  conscious  of  herself  and  her  "  cause" 
as  Barley  Simmonson.  was  of  a  "temperament" 
and  a  "soul;"  each  embodied  something  so  pecul- 
iarly belonging  to  their  period  that  the  meeting 
might  have  been  recorded  as  a  picture  of  the  time, 
a  suggestion  of  thought,  fancy,  or  feeling  in  a  hu- 
man form.  But  as  actual  fact,  there  was  only  a 
commonplace  hand -shaking  —  a  few  words,  while 
Mrs.  Crane  dangled  her  eye-glass,  and  Barley  Sim- 
monson looked  out  from  the  heavy  locks  of  light 
hair  which  fell  upon  his  brow.  In  a  moment  his 
glance  returned  to  the  "  flesh  effects  "  above  Pru- 
dence's shining  gown. 

"  I've  just  been  asking  Miss  Marlitt  to  sit  for 
me,  Mrs.  Crane,"  he  said,  softly ;  "  I  want  to  paint 
her  head." 

Mrs.  Crane  was  again  sweeping  the  room 
through  her  glass. 

"Yes?"  she  said.  She  smiled  abstractedly,  and 
seemed  to  nod  an  assent.  In  a  moment  she  passed 


52  PRUDENCE. 

her  smile  on  to  Miss  Armory.  "  Browning  was  at 
Lady  Frances  Holbrook's  to-night,"  she  said ;  "  I 
was  so  glad  to  meet  him  !" 

By  this  time  Mr.  Simmonson  had  begun  a  low- 
toned  conversation  with  Miss  Marlitt.  Helena 
proposed  to  Mrs.  Crane  to  make  the  tour  of  the 
rooms,  and  in  so  doing  the  latter's  brilliant  gaze 
fell  upon  Dr.  Huxfell.  She  was  speedily  engrossed 
in  a  talk  with  him,  and  Helena  wandered  on,  mak- 
ing a  few  introductions  here  and  there,  stopping 
for  light  piquant  remarks  to  one  or  another  of 
the  people,  who  were  all  ready  enough  to  talk  to 
Mrs.  Boyce's  charming  sister.  By  this  time  the 
music  was  fairly  under  progress,  and  it  had  come 
Prudence's  turn  to  sing.  Two  young  ladies  had 
given  an  abrupt  little  German  duet,  beginning  on 
a  shrill  high  note,  and  ending  in  about  half  a  mo- 
ment with  a  cry  of  despair.  The  usual  "  Ohs"  and 
"  Ahs  "  were  uttered ;  one  lady,  not  far  from  Pru- 
dence, convulsively  caught  her  companion  by  the 
arm,  sinking  her  head  in  her  shoulders,  and  allow- 
ing tears  to  course  unchecked  down  her  cheeks. 
Hergliebe,  standing  near  Miss  Armory,  glanced  at 
her  in  a  sort  of  horror.  When  Prudence  Marlitt 
stood  up  to  sing,  he  expected  nothing  better ;  but 
I  think  he  will  always  remember  the  impression 
she  created,  the  picture  she  made.  She  stood  by 
the  piano,  a  shining  figure  against  the  darkly  pol- 
ished floor,  the  sombre  tints  of  the  room.  Her 


PRUDENCE.  53 

head  was  daintily  poised ;  the  roses  in  her  belt 
hung  in  a  rich  cluster;  above  her  shone  a  mild 
radiance  of  candle-light,  which  seemed  to  vibrate 
in  the  dusky  pla'ces,  making  even  her  rich  beauty 
more  fair. 

Had  the  girl,  in  reality,  all  that  unuttered,  unut- 
terable longing  within  her?  She  sung  as  though 
something  in  her  heart  was  breaking.  It  was  a 
little  Finnish  ballad,  almost  unknown  in  London. 
There  was  not  despair  —  only  simple,  untutored 
feeling  in  it,  and  Prudence  could  interpret  primi- 
tive meanings.  She  attempted  no  elaborate  ex- 
pression. Her  lips  parted  in  pure,  delicious 
sound,  and  the  sweet  nature  of  the  girl  was  in 
every  note. 

While  Prudence  was  singing,  Helena  became 
conscious  of  a  new  presence  just  beside  her,  and 
looked  up  to  see  Jonas  Fielding's  tall  figure,  a 
shadow  in  the  door- way.  He  smiled  upon  Miss 
Armory,  who  was  conscious  of  a  sudden  desire  to 
watch  him  ;  but  he  turned  his  gaze  almost  at  once, 
and  with  eager  intentness,  upon  Prudence. 

The  faintest  shadow  of  surprise,  that  might  have 
deepened  into  pain,  crossed  the  man's  face.  He 
had  pictured  Prudence  in  so  many  ways  —  there 
seemed  in  his  mind  a  precedent  for  anything  she 
might  do  or  say,  or  even  seem  to  be ;  but  never 
before  had  he  thought  of  her  fashioned  thus,  or 
in  such  surroundings.  It  was  scarcely  so  much  a 


54  PRUDENCE. 

revelation  to  him  as  it  was  a  curious  phase  of  life 
newly  presented  to  him,  with  Prudence — his  Pru- 
dence— for  a  centre-piece.  A  strange  look  gather- 
ed in  his  eye.  He  was  trying  to  accustom  himself 
to  what  jarred  upon  his  earlier  remembrances — 
what  made  association  painful  —  what  tinged  his 
.simple  faith  with  a  distrust  of  which  he  felt  afraid. 
He  stood  quite  still  while  she  sung,  now  and  then 
beating  time  on  his  chin  with  one  hand ;  but  the 
music  meant  little  to  him.  Almost  before  she  had 
finished,  he  bent  down  and  half  whispered  to  Miss 
Armory, 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  Prudence  sing  '  Nearer,  my 
God,  to  Thee  '  ?" 

A  quiet  smile  flickered  into  his  eyes — a  look  of 
one  who,  in  the  midst  of  many  sounds,  recalls  the 
tenderness  of  some  vibrating  long-ago. 

Helena  returned  his  confidential  glance. 

"  No,"  she  whispered  back ;  "  but  she  must  sing 
it  some  day  for  me.  It  is  a  great  favorite  of 
mine." 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  and  made  a  gesture  which,  rath- 
er scornfully,  included  the  whole  company — "  of 
course  it  wouldn't  do  here." 

Helena  nodded,  and  swept  away  her  white  dra- 
peries that  Fielding  might  take  a  place  beside  her. 
He  looked  pleasantly  at  her,  and  was  rather  struck 
by  her  very  delicate  good  looks.  Miss  Armory's 
type  was  distinctively  American,  yet  she  might 


PRUDENCE.  55 

have  belonged  to  the  French  court  a  century  ago. 
She  had  the  clearly  cut  features,  expressive  mouth, 
and  dark  eyes  which  we  are  accustomed  to  associ- 
ate with  beauties  of  the  eighteenth  century.  Her 
hair  was  richly  brown.  There  was  a  grace  even 
in  the  thin  curves  of  her  face — certainly  nothing 
meagre  in  her  outlines,  and  the  delicacy  seemed 
only  of  type,  for  her  coloring  was  a  clear,  healthful 
white.  What  was  lacking  in  regular  beauty  she 
certainly  made  up  for  in  brilliancy  and  expression. 
Her  mouth  was  rather  wide,  but  her  smile  was  per- 
fect, and  her  voice  had  a  pure,  clear  tone,  which, 
though  it  had  never  acquired  the  undulations  of 
the  English  voice,  was  pronounced  charming  by 
the  most  Saxon  of  her  friends. 

Fielding  sat  down  by  Miss  Armory,  but,  after 
his  first  gratifying  glance  at  her  profile,  he  let  his 
thoughts  drift  away.  By  this  time  Prudence's 
song  was  ended,  and  people  were  roused  to  very 
audible  enthusiasm.  The  girl  had  a  little  court 
about  her.  Fielding  looked  at  her  with  a  strained 
sort  of  expression,  pleased  and  yet  perplexed.  Of 
what  period  in  their  lives  was  he  thinking?  Hele- 
na, looking  at  him  half  furtively,  fancied  she  could 
read  his  thoughts.  She  knew  just  what  he  and 
Prudence  might  have  been  in  Ponkamak.  She 
could  see  the  cheerful  parlor  in  which  the  girl 
might  have  read  with  him  or  sung  for  him  —  its 
homely  attractions,  the  fancy-work,  the  stiff  sofas, 


56  PRUDENCE. 

the  piano  and  melodeon,  the  good  engravings, 
and  the  well-lined  book  -  shelves.  She  could  see 
them  in  such  a  room,  lamplit  and  curtained  cosi- 
ly against  the  cruelty  of  an  Eastern  winter;  the 
girl,  beautiful,  sweet-tempered,  and  charming ;  the 
man  merging  his  Methodistical  fervor  into  broader 
planes,  something  in  his  mind  or  nature,  as  it  wres- 
tled with  spiritual  problems,  needing  the  warmth 
and  beauty  of  her  companionship.  As  years  drift- 
ed on,  thought  Helena,  he  may  have  come  to  know 
that  this  girl  was  all  his  world,  that  she  fulfilled  all 
his  unspoken  longings.  He  analyzed  nothing,  for 
he  accepted  everything ;  and  now,  now  he  sat  there 
only  demonstrating,  by  that  strange  look  in  his 
eyes,  the  slow  beating  of  the  sinewy  fingers  on  his 
chin,  that  he  feared  he  should  lose  her  utterly  in  a 
chaos  of  hateful  sound  and  color  and  movement, 
for  which  his  life  in  its  most  unfettered  moments 
offered  no  precedent. 

Prudence,  from  among  her  admirers,  drifted  to- 
ward Mass  Armory,  flushed  and  pleased.  She 
laughed,  a  little  nervously,  as  she  saw  Jonas. 

"Well,  Prue  !"  he  said,  in  his  kind  voice. 
-She  nodded  her  head,  smiling,  and  drawing  one 
or  two  long  breaths  of  pleasure. 

"  I  was  frightened  when  I  began,"  she  said  to 
him.  "  Did  I  show  it  ?" 

"  No,  dear  ;  it  was  beautiful." 

These   were    almost   the   only  words    they   ex- 


PRUDENCE.  57 

changed  that  evening.  Prudence  was  sought  for 
on  all  sides,  and  Jonas  Fielding  withdrew  into  the 
inner  library  —  a  sort  of  sanctum  of  Mr.  Boyce's, 
where  the  newest  as  well  as  the  oldest  in  litera- 
ture was  to  be  found.  The  young  man  had  oc- 
cupied some  time  in  examining  the  backs  of  the 
books,  when  Miss  Armory  discovered  him  alone, 
but  with  no  dejection  in  his  manner. 

"You  must  let  me  introduce  you  to  some  one," 
she  said,  pleasantly. 

"Thank  you,"  Fielding  said,  simply.  But  Miss 
Armory  stood  irresolute  a  moment,  a  graceful  fig- 
ure leaning  against  the  dark  book -shelves,  and 
moving  a  big  white  fan  slowly. 

"What  kind  of  people  do  you  like?"  she  said, 
looking  at  him  good-humoredly. 

Fielding  smiled. 

"  Have  you  all  kinds  ?"  he  said,  and  glanced 
through  the  portieres  to  the  crowded  rooms  be- 
yond, where  everything  was  light  and  movement 
and  sound.  Even  as  he  did  so  he  came  back,  with 
a  grateful  sense  of  repose,  to  Miss  Armory's  charm- 
ing figure  and  delicate  face. 

"Almost  all  kinds,"  she  said,  laughing ;  "but  let 
me  make  a  choice  for  you.  I  wonder  if  I  shall  do 
it  well?" 

She  looked  at  Jonas  with  almost  tender  inquiry 
in  her  eyes.  There  is  no  mode  of  flattering  man 
or  woman  so  sure  as  that  which  insinuates  a  knowl- 


58  PRUDENCE. 

edge  of  personal  opinions  or  feelings,  but  Miss  Ar- 
mory had  not  the  vaguest  idea  of  being  personal 
in  what  she  looked  or  said.  If  she  had  any  motive 
it  was  a  half-formed  one,  prompted  by  that  sense 
of  treason  toward  Jonas  Fielding  which  had  lurked 
in  her  mind  since  the  day  at  Burnett's  with  Pru- 
dence. There  was  also  an  undefined  longing  to 
understand  the  motive  of  the  man's  life  and 
thought,  and  to  see  if  she  underrated  it.  But  Jo- 
nas Fielding  saw  only  kindness  and  courtesy  and 
a  certain  something  that  was  pleasing  in  the  girl's 
soft  glance. 

"  I  shall  introduce  you  to  Lady  Ericson,"  she 
said,  mentioning  a  famous  traveller's  wife ;  "  I 
know  you  and  she  will  like  each  other,"  and  so 
saying  she  led  the  way  from  Mr.  Boyce's  room. 
But  just  beyond  the  curtains  she  stopped  with  an- 
other brilliant  glance  at  Fielding.  "  I  want  you 
to  come  and  see  me  especially,"  she  said.  "  I  am 
always  at  home  between  eleven  and  one  in  the 
morning  ;  now  don't  forget  it !" 

Jonas  assured  her  he  would  not,  and  before  she 
made  the  promised  introduction  she  removed  one 
more  burden  from  her  conscience.  "  I  want  also 
to  have  you  know  Barley  Simmonson,  the  artist," 
she  said.  "  Prudence  Marlitt  has  agreed  to  sit  to 
him."  To  this  Jonas  said  nothing,  but  he  gave 
Miss  Armory  a  searching  look. 


PRUDENCE.  59 


VI. 

JONAS  FIELDING  left  Mrs.  Boyce's  conversazione 
determined  to  seek  an  early  opportunity  of  ac- 
cepting Miss  Armory's  invitation.  That  young 
lady  had  impressed  him  as  wide -minded  in  the 
midst  of  confusing  influences.  There  was  certain- 
ly something  pleasing,  as  well  as  perfectly  sincere, 
in  her  frank-gaze  and  manner  of  treating  him.  He 
felt  a  degree  of  satisfaction  in  her  society  which 
made  him  forget  any  of  the  reasons  for  embarrass- 
ment or  distaste  which  oppressed  him  in  English 
society,  and  he  believed  that  she  could  offer  him 
frank  and  simple  solutions  of  the  social  problems 
which  already  disquieted  him.  Accordingly,  he 
made  his  appearance  in  Cornwall  Gardens  one 
morning  about  five  days  after  Mrs.  Boyce's  con- 
versazione, and  was  pleased  to  find  Miss  Armory 
alone  in  the  sitting-room  or  boudoir  devoted  to 
her  special  use.  She  looked  uncommonly  pretty. 
She  was  becomingly  dressed  in  dark  green,  al- 
though to  Jonas  the  color  and  intention  of  pict- 
uresqueness  seemed  slightly  theatrical ;  but  he 
thought  the  general  effect  not  unpleasant.  She 
was  embroidering  as  he  came  in,  and  quickly  put 


60  PRUDENCE. 

down  a  heap  of  white-and-gold  and  dull-red  silks 
upon  a  table  near  her. 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Fielding,"  she 
said,  cordially.  "  I  felt  sure  you  would  come 
soon." 

"  Yes,"  said  Jonas,  smiling  in  his  shrewd,  reflec- 
tive way,  "  I  made  up  my  mind  that  you  meant  it." 

"  Of  course  I  meant  it.  t  Now  do  sit  down  and 
make  yourself  comfortable." 

But  Jonas  appeared  to  prefer  leaning  against 
the  chimney-piece. 

"  Well,"  said  Miss  Armory,  "  I  never  interfere 
with  that  attitude  in  a  man.  Men  always  appear 
to  derive  a  special  satisfaction  from  chimney- 
pieces.  I'm  sure  fireplaces  never  ought  to  go  out 
of  fashion." 

Although  Miss  Armory  laughed,  it  was  without 
any  of  the  air  of  having  made  one  of  the  abstract 
speeches  of  society,  and  Jonas,  who  had  no  sense 
of  piquant  repartee,  answered  nothing  for  a  mo- 
ment. Then : 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  slowly,  "  I  am  fond  of  standing 
up.  I  think,  if  you've  anything  on  your  mind,  it  is 
easier  to  say  it  standing  up  or  walking  about." 

"  Then  you  shall  do  as  you  like,  and,  if  you  try, 
I  think  you  could  walk  about  even  this  confused 
little  room." 

"Is  it  confused?"  Jonas  said,  good-humoredly. 
He  looked  about  the  many  artistic  decorations 


PRUDENCE.  01 

and  furnishings,  which  indeed  nearly  filled  the 
room,  but,  as  in  the  drawing-room,  there  were  cer- 
tain wide,  tranquil  spaces.  "  I  don't  think  I  shall 
have  to  walk  about  much,"  he  said,  smiling  ;  "  but 
I  think  I  could  make  my  way.  I  hope  you  won't 
get  tired  qf  me." 

"  No,  I  promise  that.  May  I  go  on  with  my 
work?"  and  Miss  Armory  gathered  up  the  rich 
mass  of  color  at  her  side. 

"What  is  that?"  asked  Jonas,  politely.  "  I  sup- 
pose it  is  for  a  fair.  Ladies  do  a  great  deal  of 
worsted-work  now,  don't  they?  Is  that  a  tidy?" 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Armory,  slowly;  she  drifted 
back  some  years  at  the  mention  of  the  forgotten 
name.  "They  call  them  antimacassars  and  sofa- 
backs  here." 

"Do  they?"  Jonas  looked  a  moment  at  the 
deftly  moving  fingers  and  the  colors,  which  he 
felt  harmonized  perfectly  with  all  the  surround- 
ings, yet  by  means  of  some  subtle  power  he  could 
not  define.  "  Miss  Armory,"  he  said,  a  little  sud- 
denly, "  I've  come  to  talk  to  you  about  something 
very  particular.  It's  about  Prudence." 

Miss  Armory  nodded.     "  Yes ;  I  knew  you  had." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  Prudence  is  in  English  society 
now?" 

"Yes,  Mr.  Fielding;  and,  do  you  know,  I  am 
sure  she  is  going  to  be  a  genuine  success.  That 
is  something  worth  attaining  in  this  worn-out  day." 


62  PRUDENCE. 

"Worn  out!"  —  the  young  man  laughed  unaf- 
fectedly. "Worn  out!"  he  repeated,  with  almost 
a  pitying  glance  at  the  girl  before  him. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Fielding,  worn  out  in  certain  ways. 
You  carry  your  atmosphere  of  freshness  and  clear- 
ness so  strongly  about  with  you  that  I  can't  talk 
to  you  much  about  it." 

"  Oh,  go  on,"  he  pleaded  ;  "  I  beg  you  will." 

"  Well,  then,  you  don't  know  how  Fashion  has 
tired  herself,  how  glad  she  is  of  the  raison  d'etre 
in — well,  in  this  very  tidy  I  am  doing.  People  are 
still  seeking  novelty." 

"  What  is  it  that  they  want  ?" 

"  I  am  not  sure  they  know  themselves.  But 
there  is  one  thing  certain,  in  many  things  a  great 
degree  of  perfection  is  required." 

"Are  there  grades  of  perfection  in  anything, 
Miss  Armory?" 

"Well,  there  are  different  kinds,  I  should  say; 
or,  rather,  we  see  perfection  little  by  little.  Now- 
adays people  want  to  see  a  great  deal,  however,  at 
once.  English  society  is  charming  and  beautiful 
and  artistic,  and  in  certain  circles  splendid,  but  it 
is  in  some  ways  what  our  friend  Mrs.  Crane  would 
call — hollow." 

Miss  Armory  laughed,  but  she  saw  that  Jonas 
listened  intently. 

"  Go  on,"  he  said,  very  gravely.  "  Tell  me  sin- 
cerely about  it.  How  do  these  people  " — he  waved 


PRUDENCE.  63 

his  hand  as  if  including  the  phantoms  of  the  other 
night — "  how  do  these  people  think  and  feel  and 
live?" 

"How  am  I  to  tell  you?"  said  Miss  Armory, 
looking  at  him  with  a  little  uncomfortable  laugh. 
"  I  am  only  philosophizing,  please  remember.  And 
as  you  are  a  clergyman,  you  will  be  telling  me  pres- 
ently that  I  ought  not  to  judge  people  by  surface 
indications." 

"  If  you  will  be  candid,  and  give  me  the  benefit 
of  your  knowledge,  Miss  Armory,  you  need  not  be 
afraid  I  shall  preach  to  you." 

"  Well,  then,  these  people — pray  remember  I  am 
one  of  them  myself — undertake  to  set  up  standards 
of  feeling.  It  is  all  very  well  to  use  Chelsea  tea- 
cups and  old  blue,  to  wear  olive-green  and  dead 
gold,  because  it  is  the  fashion — all  that  comes  of 
our  keener  appreciations  of  good  form  and  color ; 
but  when  you  are  told  just  how  your  pulses  should 
beat,  what  should  reach  your  inmost  being,  what 
folly  you  may  indulge  in  because  it  expresses  soul, 
then  I  say  it  is  time  to  grow  philosophical." 

Miss  Armory  was  working  languidly.  She  did 
not  look  at  Jonas  when  she  ceased  speaking,  but 
the  young  man  sought  her  gaze.  He  looked  at 
her  intently. 

"  And  to  be  a  success  ?"  he  said,  sharply. 

Miss  Armory  lifted  her  eyes.  "  To  be  a  success 
in  this  circle,"  she  answered, "  is  to  contribute  to 


64  PRUDENCE. 

the  beauty,  the  brilliancy,  the  magnetism,  or  the 
effect  of  the  hour." 

Jonas  remained  silent.  He  looked  around  as 
though  he  might  begin  that  impetuous  walking 
about  of  which  he  had  spoken ;  but  in  fact  no 
repose  was  more  complete  than  that  expressed 
by  his  tall,  sinewy  figure  leaning  against  the 
chimney-piece.  "I  am  afraid,"  he  said  at  last — 
"  I  am  afraid  I  do  not  receive  new  impressions 
quickly." 

Miss  Armory  smiled,  and  held  out  her  hands 
with  an  expressive  gesture. 

"  I  don't  think  it  is  that"  she  said,  earnestly. 
"  It  is  because — don't  you  see  ? — it's  like  expect- 
ing to  understand  an  unknown  tongue  in  an  hour. 
Indeed,  I  only  half  know  it  myself.  Wait  until 
you  hear  it  talked  a  little  longer  around  you." 

"  No,"  said  Fielding,  "  it  isn't  that  either.  I  am 
not  one  of  those  to  be  enlightened  ever  by  it.  He 
stopped  a  moment,  and  then  added,  with  an  air  of 
shrewd  conviction, "  I  don't  like  it." 

Miss  Armory  continued  to  look  at  him  earnestly. 

"  Wait !"  she  said,  brilliantly. 

"  Ah !"  exclaimed  Fielding,  s.miling,  "  you  are 
pleading  the  cause  of  this — this  sort  of  thing  your- 
self, after  all  you  have  said." 

"  What  did  I  say?"  she  answered,  eagerly.  "  Did 
I  say  I  didn't  like  it  ?  Oh,  I  know  I  analyzed  it ; 
but  don't  you  know  there  are  times,  and  especially 


PRUDENCE.  65 

with  certain  people,  when  we  analyze  and  criticise 
our  deepest,  our  dearest  beliefs?" 

Jonas  smiled  thoughtfully. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  growing  preoccupied  again, 
"  this  is  not  what  I  meant  to  say  of  Prudence." 

"  No,"  it  is  not,  and  even  now  I  don't  know 
what  to  say  of  her.  I  told  you  she  was  going  to 
be  a  success,  and  so  she  is." 

"  To  contribute  to  the  beauty,  the  brilliancy,  the 
magnetism,  or  the  effect  of  the  hour?"  said  the 
young  man,  without  a  tinge  of  irony  in  his  tone. 
The  sedate  intensity  of  his  manner  impressed  Miss 
Armory.  She  paused  ;  she  had  abandoned  her 
work,  but  she  moved  the  silks  through  her  fingers 
carefully. 

"  Not  the  magnetism,"  she  answered. 

"  Why  not  ?"     Jonas  spoke  in  a  low  tone. 

"  Well,  I  don't  want  to  answer  you  hastily, 
though  I  promise  to  be  more  explicit  in  the 
future.  All  I  can  say  at  the  moment  is,  she 
wouldn't  know  how." 

"  Oh,  then,"  exclaimed  the  young  man,  with  a 
light  laugh,  "that  is  an  acquired  art  here,  is  it? 
Well,  Prudence  may  learn." 

Miss  Armory  shook  her  head. 

"  Not  if  she  stayed  here  forever ;  it  isn't  in  her ; 
but  she  will  be  just  as  successful  in  another  way. 
She  is  so  divinely  beautiful." 

"  Prudence  is  a  handsome  girl,"  answered  Jonas, 
5 


66  PRUDENCE. 

almost  as  though  defending  her  against  the  charge 
of  too  aesthetic  a  beauty.  "  In  Ponkamak  every 
one  thought  so." 

"Then  she  is  accustomed  to  success?" 

"Ah,"  exclaimed  Jonas,  with  a  quiet  tone  of 
sadness,  I  shall  have  to  explain  our  meanings  to 
you,  Miss  Armory.  In  Ponkamak  Prudence  was 
respected  and  loved." 

"  She  is  respected  here,  Mr.  Fielding,  and  loved 
in  just  the  same  sort  of  way.  Of  course  I  know 
just  what  you  mean  ;  but  don't  you  realize  the  dif- 
ference between  a  large  circle  and  a  small  one  ?  In 
Ponkamak  every  one  had  grown  up  with  every  one 
else.  There  was  no  question  of  sudden  ideas,  of 
revelations  in  beauty  or  acquirements ;  here  socie- 
ty has  only  time  to  look  on  in  a  surface  way.  It  is 
never  sure  of  renewing  any  phase  of  feeling  a  sec- 
ond season.  The  sweetness  of  constant  remem- 
brance and  association  must  be  lacking." 

"  You  all  seem  to  be  remarkably  intimate,"  said 
Jonas,  gravely.  "  That  young  Simmonson,  for  in- 
stance, the  artist,  why,  I  heard  him  talking  to  half 
a  dozen  people  as  if  they  were  his  dearest  friends." 

Miss  Armory  smiled,  and  again  made  that  little, 
despairing  gesture  with  her  hands. 

"That  is  part  of  the  language.  You  must 
learn  to  be  one  of  them,"  she  said,  laughing. 
"  But  don't  let  us  be  abstract  any  more,  Mr. 
Fielding.  There  is  something  I  want  much  to 


PRUDENCE.  67 

know.  Tell  me  about  Prudence.  Have  you  known 
her  long?" 

"Always,"  he  answered  ;  and  there  drifted  across 
his  remembrance  a  picture  of  baby  Prudence  on 
his  shoulder  as  he  tramped  through  the  snow ;  of 
the  child  Prudence  watching  for  him  on  his  way 
from  school ;  of  the  girl  Prudence,  tall  and  beauti- 
ful, but  still  trustfully  dependent.  With  these  pict- 
ures came  the  framework  of  simple  home  life — 
clear  beliefs,  clear  purposes.  They  carried  him  ea- 
sily down  to  the  present  hour,  but  here  they  seem- 
ed to  stand  still,  veiled,  obscured,  mystified  by  the 
newer  settings,  beyond  which  he  strove  in  bewil- 
derment to  believe  in  the  past. 

"  Always,"  he  repeated.  "  Her  brother  was  my 
dearest  friend.  We  went  to  school  together  in 
Ponkamak,  and  we  went  to  Andover  the  same  day ; 
but  there  Marlitt  shot  clear  ahead  of  me.  Every- 
thing there,  as  I  remember  it,  seems  to  have  be- 
longed to  him.  I  was  a  shy  sort  of  boy,  and  he 
made  life  open  treasures  to  me.  Prudence  is  beau- 
tiful. Well,  his  mind  was  like  Prue's  face.  I  never 
saw  anything  like  what  he  absorbed  of  the  best  in 
everything.  He  had  a  nature  you  couldn't  be  near 
without  feeling ;  and,  for  all  his  study  and  science, 
he  had  the  heart  of  a  boy.  Well,  we  both  began 
to  study  for  the  ministry  together ;  but  while  I  was 
plodding  on  the  ground,  Marlitt  had  thought  out 
all  his  spiritual  life.  He  had  lifted  himself  up  to 


68  PRUDENCE. 

the  highest  places.  Marlitt — "  Jonas  Fielding 
paused ;  his  theme  seemed  to  have  made  him  for- 
getful of  everything  else,  yet  he  could  not  find 
words.  "  Marlitt,"  he  repeated,  intensely,  and  with 
the  look  of  some  suffering  long  held  dumb  in  his 
eyes,  "  I  cannot  believe  that  death  could  kill  him." 

"  And  he  died  ?"  Miss  Armory  said,  gravely. 

Jonas  inclined  his  head. 

"  Yes.  It  was  the  time  of  the  yellow-fever  in 
New  Orleans.  He  went  down  there :  he  felt  he 
must.  He  died  after  months  of  toil,  weary  in  the 
harness.  I  was  always  glad  he  had  accomplished 
something,  and  I  found  he  had  left  his  impress 
upon  many  minds.  He  was  real,  but  to  me  he  is 
one  of  the  incontrovertible  arguments  against  an- 
nihilation :  everything  half  uttered  ;  all  that  subtle 
brain-power;  the  depth  of  heart-meaning;  the  un- 
spoken ;  the  undefined  ;  yet  the  rich,  rich  possibili- 
ty. Can  it  be  it  is  gone,  broken  and  unfinished, 
ended  forever  beneath  a  few  feet  of  sod  ?  What 
demon  could  have  created  such  an  earth  ?" 

After  a  moment  Miss  Armory  said,  in  a  low  tone, 
>"And  Prudence?" 

Jonas  passed  his  hand  across  his  forehead.  He 
was  still  leaning  against  the  chimney-piece,  but  he 
had  ceased  while  he  talked  to  look  at  Miss  Armo- 
ry. His  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  bit  of  wintry 
Park  visible  through  the  window. 

"Yes,  Prudence,"  he  said.     "She  was  his  idol. 


PRUDENCE.  69 

He  would  talk  of  her  by  the  hour.  Of  all  things 
he  had  dreaded  for  her  was  " — the  young  man  turn- 
ed a  quick  gaze  toward  Miss  Armory,  toward  the 
room,  toward,  as  it  were,  the  London  which  was 
making  Prudence  a  success — "  was  this — this'' 

"  Do  you  think  if  he  had  known — "  Miss  Armory 
was  beginning,  when  Jonas  checked  her  : 

"  He  knew  all  human  nature ;  nothing  was  too 
wide,  too  remote,  for  him.  You  can  study  all  the 
world,  he  used  to  say,  if  you  like,  in  six  people. 
He  understood  Prudence,  and  he  loved  her.  Miss 
Armory,  listen  to  me.  If  you  make  Prudence  a 
success  here,  she  will  not  be  one  at  home  among 
the  people  who  truly  love  her." 

Miss  Armory  was  standing  up  herself  now.  She 
had  begun  to  move  rather  restlessly  about  the 
room.  "  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  she  said, 
finally,  stopping  short  before  the  young  man,  and 
looking  at  him  with  a  compassionate  gaze. 

"  You  called  yourself  one  of  them  a  while  ago," 
he  said,  bitterly. 

Miss  Armory  looked  down  at  the  fire,  twirling 
an  ornament  of  her  chatelaine  in  her  fingers.  "  This 
is  morbid,"  she  said  at  last.  "You  will  see  it  for 
yourself  later.  I  repeat  again,  Mr.  Fielding — wait'' 

"  How  long  ?"  he  asked,  gravely. 

"  Oh,"  returned  Miss  Armory,  trying  to  laugh, 
"  I  have  no  idea  of  suggesting  a  dissection  of  so- 
ciety in  regard  to  its  effects  upon  Prudence,  nor  of 


70  PRUDENCE. 

asking  you  to  look  on  at  a  few  scenes  from  a  meta- 
physical point  of  view.  Believe  I  am  only  anxious 
to  see  you  less  unhappy." 

"  I  am  not  unhappy." 

"You  are  apprehensive  and  suspicious,  which  is 
a  great  deal  worse ;  and  you  are  starting  out  to 
judge  of  us  on  a  morbid,  prejudiced  basis.  When 
you  came  in  first,  I  thought  I  had  penetrated  your 
feelings — your  point  of  view  seemed  so  apparent — 
but  I  see  now  that  I  was  mistaken." 

"  I  am  not  one  of  you,"  said  the  young  man,  with 
a  kind  of  gloomy  insistence. 

"Don't  harbor  that  against  me.  Come,  Mr. 
Fielding;  I  am  truly  Prudence's  friend,  and  I  want 
to  be  yours.  Won't  you  believe  me  when  I  tell 
you  that  you  are  allowing  yourself  to  be  morbid  ?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  She  is  a  curious  girl,"  he  said,  slowly.  "  Mar- 
litt  was  right  in  saying  she  should  have  her  foun- 
dations firmly  fixed  before  any  strong  wave  swept 
over  her." 

"  And  you  think  she  has  come  into  what  you  call 
this  too  crudely  ?" 

"  She  will  be  dazzled,"  he  said,  gravely. 

"  And  why  not  ?  A  dazzle  is  often  a  very  good 
thing." 

"  No !"  He  spoke  a  general  negative,  but  Miss 
Armory  was  keen  enough  to  understand  its  special 
application. 


PRUDENCE.  71 

"  Then  why  don't  you  say  all  this  to  her  your- 
self?" she  exclaimed. 

Jonas  smiled  sadly. 

"  Surely  you  see,"  he  said.  "  How  much  of  all 
this  would  she  understand?" 

It  was  certainly  a  tribute  to  Miss  Armory's  intui- 
tions, but  she  scarcely  thought  of  that. 

"Then  what  am  I  to  do?"  she  said,  with  calm 
despair.  "  Remember,  I  think  you  morbid." 

"  We  have  drifted  so  far  away  from  the  begin- 
ning of  this  talk,"  said  Jonas,  "  that  you  forget  the 
impression  you  were  willing  to  convey  half  an  hour 
ago." 

"  Oh,"  said  Miss  Armory,  "  half  an  hour  ago  !  I 
didn't  know  you  then." 

"You  don't  know  me  yet,"  said  Jonas,  a  little 
sadly ;  "  nor  even  does  my  poor  little  Prudence.  I 
am  going  to  use  your  word,  Miss  Armory,"  and  he 
smiled  good-humoredly — "  wait  f" 

He  held  out  his  hand  for  good-bye,  and  the  girl 
very  quickly  put  her  own  in  it.  It  was  odd  that 
this  ungainly,  unimpressive  young  man  should  be 
leaving  her  with  a  sense  of  defeat,  or  at  least  a  de- 
sire to  make  herself  appreciated  and  better  under- 
stood. While  he  held  her  hand  in  a  thoroughly 
impersonal  sort  of  way,  she  was  swiftly  trying  to 
think  of  some  way  to  prolong  the  talk,  or  bring 
about  another  interview. 

"  I  shall  quote  you,  then,"  she  said,  finally,  clasp- 


72  PRUDENCE. 

ing  her  hands  and  looking  at  him  very  brilliantly : 
"  How  long?" 

Jonas  smiled  shrewdly.  "  Until  I  say,  Enough," 
he  answered. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  after  which  Miss 
Armory  said,  "  Have  you  accepted  Mr.  Simmon- 
son's  invitation  to  his  studio  ?" 

"  Of  course.     I  went  there  yesterday." 

"  Indeed  !  and  what  did  you  do  ?" 

"  You  can  imagine.  I  looked  at  his  pictures, 
and  he  talked." 

"Did  he?  I  don't  think  you  appreciate  your 
privileges.  Mr.  Simmonson  is  considered  a  most 
desirable  acquaintance." 

"  I  am  going  again  to-morrow,  to  lunch  with  him." 

Miss  Armory  involuntarily  stared. 

"  I  am  studying  him,"  said  Jonas  Fielding,  "and 
I  think  he  is  studying  me." 

Miss  Armory  knew  she  should  enjoy  reflecting 
upon  this  later. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  then  I  suppose  we  shall  meet 
you  there  at  the  sittings?" 

"  I  hope  so,"  he  said,  still  so  sedately  that  Miss 
Armory's  keenest  instincts  failed  her. 

"Have  you  said  all  you  can  think  of?"  she 
asked,  pleasantly. 

"  Oh,  no,"  he  answered.  "  I  mean  to  talk  a 
great  deal  to  you  yet.  My  wait  ought  to  show 
you  that." 


PRUDENCE.  73 

Miss  Armory  felt  a  new  degree  of  exhilara- 
tion. 

"  Very  well,"  she  answered.  "  But  don't  forget 
my  offer  of  friendliness. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  I  am  not  likely  to.  Good-bye, 
Miss  Armory,  and  thank  you.  Prudence  tells  me 
she  is  going  to  the  theatre  with  you  to-night." 

"  Yes  ;  good-bye,  or  rather  au  revoir" 

He  took  her  hand  again  with  the  same  stiff  for- 
mality, and  was  gone  in  a  moment,  leaving  Miss 
Armory  a  brilliant  figure  in  the  centre  of  the  beau- 
tiful room,  but  he  carried  away  the  very  vaguest 
impression  of  her  personal  charms.  Something 
about  her,  indeed,  had  made  talking  to  her  agree- 
able, independent  of  his  desire  to  hear  her  opin- 
ions ;  but  he  never  analyzed  effects  upon  himself. 
Indeed,  it  was  not  in  the  nature  of  the  man  to 
take  his  own  feelings  into  account.  A  few  ambi- 
tions he  possessed,  a  few  set  ideas.  A  certain  plan 
of  life  he  had  devised  as  being  philosophically  and 
ideally  the  best,  but  he  could  contrive  to  work 
toward  that  end  without  the  relaxation  of  Miss 
Armory's  brilliant  smiles  or  epigrammatic  conver- 
sation. She  was  a  type,  he  told  himself,  entirely 
outside  of  his  life.  He  needed  her  as  little  as  he 
needed  the  aestheticism  of  the  London  in  which 
he  found  himself  and  Prudence. 

When  he  left  Cornwall  Gardens  he  wandered 
rather  aimlessly  about,  unconsciously  seeking  a 


74  PRUDENCE. 

certain  physical  repose  upon  one  of  the  benches 
in  Hyde  Park.  It  was  a  wintry  day,  yet  the  sun, 
being  still  high  in  the  heavens,  pierced  the  fog 
with  something  like  illumination.  Fielding  sat 
still  in  the  half-mist,  thinking  intently,  and  indulg- 
ing in  those  plans  for  the  future  which  occupied 
half  his  waking  thoughts.  Yet  even  as  that  vis- 
ionary to-morrow  framed  itself  in  genial  colors, 
bringing  a  look  of  unutterable  joy  to  the  man's 
clear-cut,  strong  face,  he  reverted  to  his  recent  talk 
with  Miss  Armory,  and  a  new  channel,  less  vigor- 
ous and  hopeful,  was  given  to  his  thoughts. 

He  had  started  out  that  morning  believing  he 
should  find  just  the  assistance  he  needed  in  Miss 
Armory;  but  he  was  compelled  to  own  himself 
disappointed.  What  was  it  he  had  asked  of  her? 
Something  he  now  believed  she  could  not  under- 
stand ;  yet  how  well  she  had  talked  !  How  read- 
ily she  had  found  answers  to  his  meagre  words  ! 
He  could  not  tell  how  to  frame  his  complaint 
against  the  brilliant,  good-humored  young  lady, 
yet  he  knew  that  he  had  reason  to  be  disheart- 
ened. As  he  found  the  benches  of  the  Park  on 
so  cold  a  morning  peculiarly  unresponsive,  he  got 
up,  and,  stretching  his  limbs,  walked  away  in  the 
direction  of  Piccadilly ;  but  as  he  went  he  owned 
to  himself  that  he  was  depressed  in  the  extreme. 
He  sauntered  on,  still  idling  both  in  his  gait  and 
train  of  thought,  but,  as  he  walked,  the  characters 


PRUDENCE.  75 

of  a  certain  advertisement  grew  luminous  before 
his  eyes — 

"CHRIST   LEAVING   THE    PR^TORIUM." 

I  think  he  had  encountered  the  words  a  dozen 
times  before  he  found  himself  in  Bond  Street,  me- 
chanically directing  his  steps  toward  the  Dor£  Gal- 
lery. He  paid  his  shilling,  stopped  to  look  at  a 
gorgeous  book  on  sale,  and  then  going  into  the 
very  glaring  little  gallery,  experienced  a  certain 
shock  on  seeing  Prudence  and  Mrs.  Crane  seated 
on  one  of  the  circular  benches. 


76  PRUDENCE. 


VII. 

MRS.  CRANE  wore  her  most  absorbed  air.  She 
was  looking  at  the  large  mass  of  color  representing 
that  most  pathetic,  marvellous  moment  in  the  life 
of  Christ.  Prudence  was  also  studying  the  picture, 
but  with  the  air  of  one  ready  to  dimple  into  smiles 
at  anything  more  interesting  and  attractively  per- 
sonal. 

"  Oh,  Jonas !"  said  Mrs.  Crane,  brightly,  as  she 
extended  a  cordial  hand.  Prudence  looked  de- 
lighted, and  made  room  for  Jonas  at  her  side. 

"  Now,"  said  Mrs.  Crane,  "  this  is  just  what  a 
clergyman  ought  to  like,  and  isn't  it  wonderful? 
Just  look  at  those  Jewish  women,  and  those  chil- 
dren !  That  dear  little  thing  there  —  isnt  it  per- 
fect?" 

Jonas  looked.  "  There  is  a  great  deal  of  color," 
he  said,  critically. 

"  Oh,  but  you  know,"  said  Mrs.  Crane,  "  that's 
what  they  like  so  over  here  now.  Don't  you  re- 
mark it  ?  They  make  color  a  perfect — a  perfect 
idol." 

Jonas,  whose  eyes  had  unconsciously  been  filled 
with  the  tender  harmonies  in  Cornwall  Gardens, 


PRUDENCE.  77 

answered  nothing  for  a  moment.  Then  he  said, 
studying  the  picture, 

"  Well,  it  isn't  my  idea  of  the  scene."  And  he 
turned  to  Miss  Marlitt.  "  Prue  looks  very  tired," 
he  said,  smiling. 

"  Oh,  no  wonder,"  said  Mrs.  Crane.  "  She's  go- 
ing to  be  such  a  belle !  She's  bewildered  with 
invitations  and  attentions,  and  now  Lady  Frances 
Holbrook  wants  us  to  go  to  her  manor-house  in 
the  country.  Really,  I  had  no  idea,  until  I  came 
over,  the  English  were  so  cordial." 

"  They're  perfectly  lovely,"  said  Prudence.  "  Don't 
you  want  to  come  and  have  some  lunch  with  us? 
If  I  look  tired,  so  do  you.  Come,  Aunt  Rebecca, 
do  remember  all  there  is  to  be  done  before  this 
evening." 

Mrs.  Crane  stood  up  with  a  pleased  sort  of  im- 
portance. "  Yes,"  she  said,  looking  at  Jonas  for 
approbation,  "  Prudence  is  regularly  in  society." 

Prue  laughed.  It  was  her  old  gay  laugh,  yet  her 
eyes  sought  those  of  Jonas  with  a  furtive  air. 

"  Aren't  you  proud  of  me,  Jonas  ?"  she  said, 
coaxingly. 

"  Of  course,"  he  answered,  gravely ;  "  but  I  wish 
you  looked  less  tired." 

He  stood  up  and  followed  the  ladies  down-stairs, 
where  they  took  a  cab,  and  Jonas,  sitting  opposite 
to  Mrs.  Crane,  listened  to  her  discourse  upon  Lon- 
don society,  now  and  then  glancing  at  Prue's  fair 


78  PRUDENCE. 

face  to  read  in  it  some  expression  of  sympathy 
with  his  distrust.  But  there  was  none.  The  girl 
was  supremely  contented,  supremely  happy.  She 
ate  her  luncheon,  and  talked  about  the  afternoon, 
freely  imparting  her  plans  to  Jonas,  displaying  a 
little  note-book  full  of  engagements,  and  wonder- 
ing whether  she  should  enjoy  the  theatre.  Mrs. 
Crane  touched  Jonas's  arm  with  a  significant  smile. 

"  Of  course  she  will,"  she  sard,  radiantly.  "  We 
know  who'll  be  there.  That  young  Mr.  Simmon- 
son.  Did  you  know,  Jonas,  his  uncle  is  a  real  lord 
over  here,  and  one  day  he  is  to  have  the  title." 

"  I  knew,"  said  Jonas. 

"  Well"  said  Mrs.  Crane,  drawing  a  long  breath, 
"  I  think  if  some  people  in  Ponkamak  would  hear 
of  our  doings,  they  would  be  surprised." 

"  I  am  writing  home  to-night,"  said  Jonas,  a  lit- 
tle grimly.  "What  shall  I  say?" 

"  Oh,  what  you  like.  Tell  them  about  Pru- 
dence's success  here." 

It  was  the  second  time  he  had  heard  the  word 
applied  to  the  girl  whom  he  fain  would  shelter 
from  the  world  with  his  very  life,  but  coming  from 
Mrs.  Crane  it  had  a  bolder  significance. 

"How  am  I  to  say  that,  Prue?"  he  said,  smiling 
across  the  table  upon  Prue's  contented  young  face. 

"Oh,"  said  the  girl,  gayly,  "  call  it  fun  —  that's 
what  it  is.  Tell  them  I'm  having  a  perfectly  ele- 
gant time." 


PRUDENCE.  79 

"  I  am  writing  to  George  Maybery,"  said  Jonas, 
"  and  I  won't  forget  your  message." 

In  spite  of  their  many  obligations,  the  ladies 
declared  after  luncheon  they  had  an  hour  or  two 
on  their  hands,  and  would  like  Jonas  to  take  them 
to  see  something.  He  was  eager  enough  for  their 
service,  and  standing  in  Regent  Street  hurriedly 
enumerated  such  places  as  he  considered  likely  to 
interest  them.  Westminster  occurred  to  them  all 
as  peculiarly  congenial.  The  Abbey  was  one  of 
the  spots  which  Jonas  had  frequently  discussed 
with  Prudence  in  a  remote  way,  aided  by  stereo- 
scopic views  and  a  magazine  article  or  two  they 
read  together  during  the  winter  evenings.  It  hurt 
him  a  little  to  see  that  the  calm  radiance  of  her 
face  remained  unchanged  while  he  made  his  sug- 
gestion, and  when  they  were  in  a  cab  whirling  to- 
ward the  Abbey,  she  said,  with  her  lovely  smile, 
"Westminster,  isn't  it?"  And  almost  before  Jo- 
nas answered  "Yes,"  she  had  turned  to  ask  some 
trivial  question  of  her  aunt. 

But  in  the  Abbey  Prudence's  fluttering  thoughts 
concentrated  —  solemnified  by  the  silent,  hidden 
presences  to  which  Jonas  conducted  her  reverent- 
ly, wishing  he  could  lift  his  face  up  to  the  very 
vault  of  heaven,  with  bared  head,  as  he  stood 
among  them.  Prue  looked,  asked  questions,  and 
listened  to  Jonas  with  respectful  attention  ;  but 
what  would  he  not  have  given  for  an  hour  of  the 


80  PRUDENCE. 

old  sweet  companionship,  in  which  the  girl  gave 
freely  all  that  she  had  to  give,  while  he  unlocked 
the  storehouse  of  his  mind,  or  lavished  on  her  the 
homage  of  his  deep,  whole-souled  nature?  That 
there  had  been  no  promise  for  the  future  ex- 
changed between  them  had  only  seemed  to 
strengthen  his  devotion  and  her  trustful  depend- 
ence. She  knew — she  must  have  known — he  was 
only  waiting  to  speak  until  she  was  older,  in  obe- 
dience to  a  promise  made  her  dead  brother.  Six 
months  ago  he  and  Prudence  would  have  stood  in 
this  grand  old  monastery  with  but  one  feeling,  and 
now  the  girl  was  listening  and  looking  because  she 
knew  it  was  a  part  of  her  education,  and  it  would 
be  silly  to  forget  the  names  and  the  tombs,  and 
Jonas's  descriptions  were  more  interesting  than 
the  guide-book,  or  even  a  verger.  As  for  Jonas, 
he  steeled  himself  bravely  to  the  subtle  change  in 
their  relationship,  and  went  on,  elaborating,  if  pos- 
sible, more  than  he  would  have  done  had  his  heart 
beat  less  sadly.  Mrs.  Crane  was  brilliant,  alert, 
and  smilingly  sarcastic  in  her  remarks.  She  meant 
to  write  home  very  well  and  solemnly  on  the  sub- 
ject, but  the  Abbey,  like  all  else  that  was  English, 
afforded  her  a  certain  amount  of  amusement.  Of 
late  she  was  rarely  in  a  mdod  to  be  impressed,  and 
she  moved  about  among  the  monuments  seeking 
some  object  for  her  brilliant  sarcasm.  That  tomb 
holding  the  mortal  remains  of  the  man  who  moved 


PRUDENCE.  81 

nations  to  tears  or  laughter  held  her  quiet,  and 
subdued  her  most  eager  remarks ;  but  she  said  in  a 
moment  that  he  had  belonged  to  all  the  world,  and 
moved  away  with  a  look  on  her  face  in  which  there 
was,  singular  to  say,  no  thought  of  self.  They  had 
wandered  about  the  cloisters,  looked  at  the  close 
in  the  pale,  foggy  light,  and  examined  with  some 
interest  the  low  door-ways  leading  to  the  various 
clerical  residences  of  the  Abbey.  The  afternoon 
service  began,  and,  as  the  organ  pealed  forth,  the 
American  party  decided  to  take  their  places  among 
the  worshippers,  interested  to  observe  the  entrance 
of  the  choristers  and  listen  to  the  sweet,  passion- 
less music  of  the  cathedral  choir. 

Jonas  was  glad  of  the  quiet.  He  sat  in  one  of 
the  old  stalls,  looking  now  and  then  at  Prudence's 
beautiful  face  shining  beneath  the  broad-brimmed 
felt  hat.  The  girl's  rich  tints  filled  him  with  a  sort 
of  peace :  he  hardly  knew  what  to  call  it  —  what 
name  to  give  the  love  and  longing  that  sometimes 
crept  into  his  very  soul.  Was  it,  he  wondered,  be- 
cause she  was  so  unutterably  lovely?  He  looked 
intently  at  the  soft  cheek,  the  lashes  which  curled 
upon  it,  half  shading  the  dark  sweetness  of  her 
eyes  —  at  the  waves  of  warmly  colored  hair  that 
showed  beneath  her  hat — at  the  delicately  mould- 
ed chin,  the  child-like  bloom  of  the  lips — he  looked 
at  her,  I  say,  feasting  his  eyes,  his  very  soul,  upon 
her  beauty.  Yet  he  was  almost  unaware  that  he 
•  6 


82  PRUDENCE. 

was  counting  up  her  charms,  that  he  was  rejoic- 
ing in  her  exceeding  loveliness  ;  something  higher, 
stronger,  sweeter,  was  in  the  conscious  part  of  his 
mind  —  the  dream  that  had  rilled  him  since  boy- 
hood, the  hope  that  had  made  of  toil  a  pleasure. 
He  leaned  his  face  down  upon  his  hand,  and  pas- 
sionately conjured  up  the  vision  that  had  been  the 
day-dream  of  all  those  working,  toiling  years.  It 
was  Prudence,  always  Prudence,  the  girl  sheltered 
in  his  keeping,  the  wife  waiting  for  his  coming,  the 
mother  caring  for  his  children,  the  woman  who  was 
to  be  the  inspiration,  the  guardian,  the  friend  of 
all  his  life !  And  had  this  been  reality,  or  only  the 
fantastic  folly  of  a  man  who  passionately  idealizes 
not  only  his  chances  of  life,  but  the  object  of  his 
concentrated  desires  ?  Jonas,  unnerved,  unstrung, 
by  all  the  mental  conflicts  of  the  past  few  days,  re- 
fused to  answer  to  himself  these  unrestful  ques- 
tions. He  tried  to  reduce  thought  to  mere  numb- 
ness, if  it  would  not  flow  into  another  channel,  and 
Prudence,  glancing  shyly  toward  him,  was  struck 
with  the  repressed  intensity  of  the  man's  face  and 
look.  To  her  vision,  Jonas,  dear  old  Jonas,  sat 
there  a  tall,  strong  figure,  with  the  same  plain,  ear- 
nest face  she  always  remembered,  and  had  never 
criticised.  She  never  questioned  whence  came  the 
light  that  filled  his  eyes  when  he  was  preaching,  or, 
perhaps,  when  he  was  walking  up  and  down  the 
old-fashioned  parlor  in  Ponkamak,  talking  to  her 


PRUDENCE.  83 

or  reading  aloud.  Those  hidden  chambers  of  the 
mind,  those  untrodden,  mysterious  places,  which 
were  Self  in  the  man,  she  had  never  considered. 
Their  outcome  she  felt  without  analyzing  the 
source,  or  questioning  whether  there  might  not  be 
a  tremulous  fascination  in  response  to  the  move- 
ments of  his  inner  being.  She  looked  up  at  him 
now,  realizing  the  lines  of  fatigue  about  the  honest 
eyes  and  strong  mouth,  seeing  with  swift  regret 
that  he  was  pale  and  tired ;  but  no  depths  were 
stirred,  no  longing  to  know  the  meaning  of  the 
change  in  his  familiar  face.  She  would  have 
slipped  one  of  her  little  hands  tenderly  toward 
him  had  she  dared ;  she  would  have  gladly  minis- 
tered to  his  physical  needs ;  indeed,  she  began  to 
wonder  whether  she  had  been  right  in  urging  Jo- 
nas to  stay  in  London  when  he  had  found  them 
on  his  way  to  Nice ;  but  her  introspection  went  no 
farther  than  this  vague  doubt  of  her  own  infallibil- 
ity, and  compassion  for  the  weariness  expressed  in 
Jonas's  face. 

"  It  is  over,"  .he  said,  in  a  moment,  while  Pru- 
dence was  thinking  what  she  ought  to  do. 

Prudence  started,  and  demurely  walked  after  her 
aunt  and  Jonas  down  the  aisle,  a  little  flattered 
by  the  glances  of  admiration  freely  lavished  upon 
her  as  she  went.  She  forgot  to  say  anything  to 
Jonas  about  his  health  as  he  put  her,  with  Mrs. 
Crane,  into  a  cab :  but  then,  as  she  remembered 


84  PRUDENCE. 

later,  she  should  see  him  the  next  day.  When 
they  had  driven  off,  the  young  man  started  for  an- 
other solitary  walk.  Where  his  steps  took  him 
that  afternoon  Jonas  Fielding  never  knew.  He 
walked  on  and  on,  piercing  the  fog,  through  which 
street  venders  with  their  flaring  lamps  were  to  be 
seen,  before  he  found  himself  at  his  hotel ;  and, 
after  so  much  incoherent  reflection,  it  was  some- 
what of  a  relief  to  find  some  home  letters,  and  also 
a  little  note  from  Miss  Armory.  The  latter  was 
quickly  read,  but  Jonas  held  it  a  long  time  in  his 
hands.  It  bore  the  air  of  Belgravia  in  its  faint 
scent,  pretty  monogram,  and  unobtrusive  crest. 

"DEAR  MR.  FIELDING"  (it  ran), — "I  really  feel 
that  we  have  made  a  good  beginning  to-day,  but 
came  to  no  ending.  You  must  come  up  soon 
again,  and  may  be  sure  of  finding  me  at  home  be- 
tween eleven  and  one  o'clock  any  morning.  The 
chief  object  of  this  note,  however,  is  to  ask  you  to 
try  and  look  in  at  the  Lyceum  this  evening,  where 
you  will  find  us  in  box  No.  — .  Don't  think  I  am 
going  to  be  too  persistent  in  my  efforts  to  control 
destiny.  I  only  want  you  to  see  that  I  am  not  the 
ruling  power  you  seemed  to  imagine.  Do  you 
know,  I  felt,  after  you  went  away,  as  though  I 
would  give  a  great  deal — for — well,  even  the  cob- 
ble-stones on  Broadway.  Sincerely  yours, 

"  HELENA  LISLE  ARMORY." 


PRUDENCE.  85 

Jonas  re-read  the  letter  once  or  twice  before  he 
replaced  it  in  its  envelope.  He  smiled  to  himself 
with  the  air  of  a  man  who  wishes  he  could  alter  a 
decided  opinion.  Then,  after  one  or  two  turns 
about  his  room,  he  sat  down  and  penned  the  fol- 
lowing reply : 

"  MY  DEAR  Miss  ARMORY,  —  I  am  very  much 
obliged  to  you  for  your  kindness  in  writing  me 
that  note,  and  I  am  glad  that  anything  I  have  said 
made  you  feel  as  if  you  would  like  to  see  your  na- 
tive land  soon  again.  We  shall  have  many  more 
talks  if  you  are  always  as  kind  as  you  were  to-day. 
I  feel  very  much  unhinged  lately,  but  I  don't  know 
as  anything  in  particular  has  happened  to  unhinge 
me,  only  I  suppose  we  must  have  periods  of  pecul- 
iar mental  and  moral  shock  once  in  so  often.  I 
would  rather  have  had  just  this  one  in  America,  I 
think.  I  am  not  in  the  humor  for  the  theatre  to- 
night, or  I  should  certainly  go,  but  I  hope  your 
party  will  enjoy  it  very  much.  Very  truly  yours, 

"  JONAS  P.  FIELDING." 

When  he  had  written  this  note  the  young  man 
held  it  a  long  time  purposelessly  in  his  hands. 
Then  he  went  down-stairs,  and  with  a  sedate  po- 
liteness asked  to  have  it  posted  at  once. 


86  PRUDENCE. 


VIII. 

THERE  is  an  old  house  not  far  from  the  Strand 
in  which  Mr.  Barley  Simmonson  has  his  studio. 
How  that  popular  young  man  had  come  to  set  up 
his  artistic  gods  in  such  a  sombre  neighborhood 
was  a  question  of  wonder  until  his  friends  learned 
to  know  the  house ;  then  surprise  merged  into 
something  like  envy,  for  nowhere  in  London  could 
there  have  been  more  beautiful  rooms.  A  great 
many  people  know  the  old  house  now.  It  is  in  a 
quiet  street  full  of  sanctuaries,  and  there  is  a  vague 
charm,  half  of  antiquity,  half  of  splendid  solemnity, 
about  the  vistas  on  every  side.  The  house  once 
belonged  to  a  famous  duke,  whose  coat  of  arms  is 
still  above  the  mantels,  and  in  faded  colors  paint- 
ed on  the  wall.  Few  outward  changes  have  been 
made  since  the  pompous  day  of  his  Grace  —  the 
old  knocker,  the  link-boys'  extinguishers,  the  heavy 
door,  the  porter's  niche,  remain  in  solemn  preser- 
vation, and  the  dusky  hall-way  and  staircases  are 
ponderous  with  suggestions  of  the  past. 

Mr.  Simmonson  had  two  brilliant  rooms  up- 
stairs, in  which  royalty  had  danced  many  a  gay 
measure  a  hundred  years  ago.  The  lower  windows 


PRUDENCE.  87 

look  out  upon  an  old  bit  of  London,  and  catch  the 
rushing  of  the  river,  with  its  suggestions  of  many 
a  century's  ebb  and  flow ;  at  the  side  the  windows 
front  a  peaceful,  old-fashioned  garden,  such  as  one 
sees  in  the  very  heart  of  London  —  fragrant  and 
green,  even  in  winter- time.  Within,  everything 
that  a  really  good  instinct  for  color  and  arrange- 
ment could  do  he  had  done  for  the  room.  I  can- 
not hope  to  describe  the  means  employed  for  this 
wonderfully  harmonious  end.  Miss  Armory  used 
to  say  that  if  at  times  she  forgot  that  she  was  in 
a  real  workshop,  she  always  remembered  that  she 
was  among  the  most  beautiful  fabrics,  the  most  ar- 
tistic furnishings,  softened,  harmonized,  by  the  di- 
vinest  tints  time  can  devise  or  money  buy.  Sim- 
monson's  piano  stood  in  a  darkly  polished  space 
near  the  embrasure  of  those  windows  looking  out 
upon  the  river,  and  the  window -seats  covered  in 
faded  red  velvet  had  panes  of  stained  glass  here 
and  there,  so  that  his  listeners  sitting  there  looked 
often  like  saints  in  a  shrine,  aureole -crowned,  vi- 
brating with  some  mysterious  light — at  least  Hele- 
na thought  of  this  on  the  days  when  Prudence  vis- 
ited the  studio,  and  the  girl  sat  for  her  picture  in  a 
desultory  sort  of  fashion,  interrupted  by  the  fitful- 
ness  of  the  painter's  mood  or  Prudence's  declara- 
tion that  she  was  tired. 

It  was  a  fascinating  sort  of  occupation,  I  think, 
for  all  the  party:  a  few  weeks  which  drifted  into 


88  PRUDENCE. 

their  lives  unexpectedly,  but  bringing  a  charm 
which  no  one  thought  of  analyzing  any  more  than 
they  wondered  who  had  first  owned  the  faded 
mediaeval  splendors  of  Barley  Simmonson's  room. 
Mrs.  Boyce  used  to  bring  her  work,  but  Hel- 
ena never  made  even  a  feint  of  thus  occupying 
her  fingers.  She  moved  about  the  room  from 
time  to  time,  played  bits  of  music,  exchanged  sen- 
timents and  feelings  with  Barley  Simmonson,  and 
freely  vented  her  admiration  of  little  Prudence, 
who  sat  in  a  shining  space,  wearing  her  satin  gown, 
and  holding  some  fading  yellow  roses  in  her  hands. 

Those  were  whole  hours  of  life,  Miss  Armory 
sometimes  said,  yet  she  believed  in  them  as  con- 
tributions to  the  warmer  needs  of  nature  and  feel- 
ing. She  would  not  have  sacrificed  her  share  in 
them  for  any  consideration,  and  her  mind  was  only 
disturbed  when  she  thought  of  Jonas  Fielding,  and 
forced  herself  to  believe  that  Barley  Simmonson 
intended  to  let  himself  fall  in  love. 

Moving  his  eyes  from  the  canvas  to  Prue's  face 
above  the  creamy  satin  and  careless  lace,  it  was 
not  possible  that  he  should  not  be  at  least  moved 
to  sentiment ;  but  Miss  Armory  had  seen  the 
man's  intention  that  night  at  the  Lyceum  The- 
atre. It  was  not  only  that  he  had  brought,  as  an 
offering  to  Prudence,  a  tall  white  lily,  which  the 
girl  had  some  difficulty  in  holding  or  "  bearing " 
throughout  the  play,  but  that  since  the  talk  of 


PRUDENCE.  89 

the  morning  Helena's  instincts  were  all  sharpened 
where  Prudence  was  concerned.  A  flavor  of  Puri- 
tanism clung  about  Helena  in  the  midst  of  her 
later  surroundings.  She  could  not  shake  off  her 
keen  sense  of  justice,  and  it  now  smote  her  con- 
science that  she  had  not  frankly  warned  Jonas  of 
what  she  felt  to  be  in  the  air.  But  of  what  nature 
was  his  and  Prudence's  relationship?  Helena  had 
gathered  enough  to  know  that  the  man  loved  Pru- 
dence passionately,  and  that  he  believed  in  her 
loyalty  to  him.  No  engagement  existed  between 
them  founded  on  word ;  yet  the  very  nature  of  a 
bond  that  has  for  its  security  what  must  remain 
unspoken  appealed  to  Helena's  best  instincts.  The 
fine  appreciation  of  the  girl  covered  with  clear  vi- 
sion and  unwavering  opinion  what  might  have  been 
debatable  ground  in  a  mind  like  Prue's.  Miss  Ar- 
mory told  herself  that  she  would  have  been  faith- 
ful forever  on  such  an  understanding,  and  it  would 
be  double  treason  to  desert  a  post  to  which  your 
unformulated  sense  of  honor  alone  held  you.  In 
this  fashion  Miss  Armory  reasoned  during  the  first 
fortnight  of  the  sittings,  seeing  Jonas  Fielding  only 
twice  in  the  interval,  for  he  had  unexpectedly  gone 
out  of  town.  That  he  looked  to  Miss  Armory  for 
some  sympathy  had  been  evident  to  her  in  the 
note  he  wrote  in  starting.  "  I  am  off,"  he  said, 

"  to  preach  for  a  friend  at  N ,  and  I  regret  not 

having  seen  you  when   I   called  yesterday,  for  I 


90  PRUDENCE. 

should  like  to  have  taken  counsel  with  you  as  to 
how  to  address  the  middle  classes  who  will  hear 
me  ;  not  that  I  do  not  feel  strongly  with  the  '  mul- 
titude,' but  that  I  am  all  at  sea  as  to  English  in- 
stincts. I  should  not  have  demanded  any  theology 
of  you,  you  may  be  sure,  for  I  know  your  lack  of 
even  a  religious  impression.  Perhaps,  while  you 
were  instructing  me  in  the  traditions  of  the  peo- 
ple, I  should  have  shown  you  the  error  of  your 
way.  At  all  events,  I  believe  we  should  have  done 
each  other  good.  I  shall  be  at  Simmonson's  next 
Thursday." 

Miss  Armory  thought  she  had  never  received  a 
note  she  liked  so  well,  and,  in  spite  of  her  mental 
uneasiness,  she  waited  with  some  impatience  for 
Fielding's  appearance  on  the  Thursday.  In  the 
midst  of  a  sword-thrust,  even,  we  may  care  for  the 
hand  that  holds  the  weapon,  and  to  Miss  Armory 
there  was  already  a  fascination  in  Jonas  Fielding's 
disapproval. 

"  You  are  working  very  badly,"  she  said  to  the 
painter  about  three  o'clock  that  afternoon. 

Simmonson  threw  down  his  brush,  gazing  sadly 
upon  Prudence. 

"  Am  I  ?"  he  said.  "  Yes,  I  suppose  so."  And 
then  the  heavy  curtains  were  moved,  and  Jonas 
Fielding  was  announced.  Helena  gave  a  start. 
He  shook  hands  with  Mr.  Simmonson,  who  seem- 
ed glad  of  an  absolute  excuse  for  idleness. 


PRUDENCE.  91 

"  It  is  getting  too  dark  for  work,"  he  said,  stand- 
ing up ;  and  Prudence  moved  with  evident  gratifi- 
cation at  the  change. 

"  Now,  Miss  Marlitt,"  said  Simmonson,  in  a  mo- 
ment, "  I  will  show  you  those  costumes  you  wanted 
to  see." 

The  two  moved  away,  followed  by  Mrs.  Boyce, 
and  Helena  found  herself  apart  with  Fielding. 

"  How  did  the  sermon  go?"  she  said,  pleasantly. 

"  Well  enough.  I  found  out  that  the  simplest 
way  was  to  appeal  to  common  human  nature." 
His  eyes  wandered  toward  Prudence,  who  was  sit- 
ting in  the  window  with  her  lap  full  of  color. 

"And  the  sittings?"  he  said,  with  a  smile. 

"Very  well.  I  wish  you  had  been  here.  I  think 
you  would  have  enjoyed  them." 

"  Which  means  I  should  have  had  my  prejudices 
removed?" 

"  Oh  no ;  I  have  been  saving  something  special 
for  that." 

Helena's  dark  eyes  flashed  merrily. 

"  What  ? — do  let  me  work  myself  up  to  it  prop- 
erly." 

"  The  private  view  at  the  Grosvenor — it  will  be 
to-morrow.  I  felt  that  to  be  my  piece  de  resistance" 

"  Well,"  said  Jonas,  "  I  won't  ask  any  questions. 
If  you  are  kind  enough  to  invite  me,  I  shall  go  as 
ignorantly  as  any  juryman  could  begin  a  case  ;  but 
— will  you  accept  my  verdict  ?" 


'.1 2  PRUDENCE. 

Helena's  expression  changed. 

"  Oh,"  said  Jonas,  laughing ;  "  I  don't  mean  as 
an  influence  upon  your  own  thought — don't  imag- 
ine I  am  quite  so  self-confident ;  but  I  mean,  will 
you  believe  in  the  sincerity  of  my  own  beliefs 
after  this  supreme  test?" 

Helena  paused. 

"  Do  you  know  anything  of  art  ?"  she  said,  in  a 
moment.  They  were  sitting  in  one  of  the  win- 
dows, Helena  leaning  back  against  the  side,  Jonas 
on  a  low  chair  near  by.  He  swept  the  room  slow- 
ly with  his  gaze,  and  then  brought  his  eyes  back  to 
Miss  Armory's  charming  figure. 

"  No,"  he  said,  conclusively. 

"  Well,"  said  the  young  lady,  "  what  can  I  do  to- 
morrow, then? — my  object  being  to  show  you  the 
real  art  in  aestheticism,  and  that  in  it  could  be  true 
feeling,  real  action." 

"  Even  though  you  scorned  it  so  forcibly  to  me 
the  other  day?" 

"  I  scorned  its  exaggerations.  I  scorn  them  yet. 
Come,  Mr.  Fielding,  be  fair,  and  wide-minded.  Ac- 
cept, with  tolerance  of  others'  needs,  what  you  do 
not  need  yourself." 

They  had  been  using  a  light  tone  of  banter,  but 
now  into  the  man's  face  came  a  look  which  star- 
tled Helena  as  she  watched  him :  it  brought  out 
painfully  the  haggard  lines  about  his  mouth  and 
eyes. 


PRUDENCE.  93 

"  I  am  trying  to  do  that  very  thing,"  he  said, 
quietly.  "  I  am  afraid  I  never  thought  of  it  until 
lately." 

Mrs.  Boyce  interrupted  them  at  this  moment. 
She  too  had  some  questions  to  ask  about  the 
country  sermon.  Meanwhile  Barley  Simmonson 
was  heard  idling  at  the  piano. 

"  So  you've  been  preaching  to  the  people,  Field- 
ing, have  you  ?"  he  said,  smiling,  and  lingering  over 
a  soft  cadence. 

"  Who  are  the  people  ?"  asked  Jonas,  with  his 
shrewd  smile.  "  I've  been  trying  to  find  out  ever 
since  I  came  here  —  for,  from  what  I  am  told,  it 
seems  to  me  my  lot  in  life,  were  I  an  Englishman, 
would  be  among  them.  You  will  be  a  lord,  I  sup- 
pose, one  day,  Mr.  Simmonson,  and  if  I  were  to  be 
an  Englishman,  I  should  probably  have  to  consort 
with  your  grocer,  and  you  couldn't  know  me." 

Simmonson  looked  deeply  interested,  but  he 
said  nothing  for  a  moment.  He  did  not  so  much 
scorn  his  prospective  rank  as  that  he  said  its  obli- 
gations hampered  him.  He  sat  silently  a  moment, 
his  Greek  head  bent  backward  slightly,  his  eyes 
half  closed. 

"Noblesse  oblige"  he  murmured,  with  soft  dis- 
dain. He  was  playing  vagrant  bars  of  Schubert. 
"When  we  can  realize  the  poet's  meaning"  (a  sad 
arpeggio)  "  of  a  higher  life ;  when  existence  grows 
fuller ;  when  sensations  deepen ;  when  the  soul 


94  PRUDENCE. 

grows  conscious  of  the  infinite,  which  pierces  or 
vibrates  through  the  finite ;  Avhen  song  "  (and  here 
Barley's  eyes  grew  illumined) — "when  song  is  but 
the  outcome  of  nature  ;  when  nature  fuses  itself 
with  the  illimitable ;  when  Passion  finds  its  final 
utterance,  and  our  moments — our  moments  throb 
with  the  actual  in  what  we  call  Emotion  and  Life  " 
(Barley's  finger  touched  one  note  over  and  over  in 
the  treble  with  a  sad  insistence) — "  then  even  rank 
may  have  its  measure  of  intensity :  then  we  may 
say  '  my  lord,'  meaning  '  my  gentle ' "  (Barley's 
smile  was  very  sweet — he  looked  at  every  one) ; 
"  then  we  may  wear  laurel  in  Westminster ;  then 
we  may  assemble  as  one  palpitating,  perfect  Soul." 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Boyce,  leaning  over  one  end 
of  the  grand  piano,  "  that  sounds  very  well,  Mr. 
Simmonson.  I  hope  we  shall  all  live  to  see  some- 
thing of  this  Arcadia  in  the  House  of  Lords." 

Helena  slowly  turned  her  eyes  upon  the  artist, 
who  continued  to  strike  desultory  notes,  and  look 
with  a  cold,  sad  smile  upon  the  little  company. 

"  I  wonder  how  much  of  it  you'll  repeat  heartily 
ten  years  hence  ?"  Miss  Armory  said,  and  almost 
instantly  colored,  for  she  observed  Jonas  smiling 
approval,  with  a  half-triumphant,  half-mischievous 
"  I  told  you  so  "  in  his  expression.  Therefore  she 
felt  it  her  duty  to  add,  in  a  low  tone,  which  he 
only  heard  —  "I  understand  what  you  mean.  I 
maintain  that  the  false  ground  in  aestheticism  is 


PRUDENCE.  95 

only  in  the  establishing  a  standard  of  feeling, 
Now  I  am  sure  I  can  explain  myself  better  at 
the  Grosvenor.  You  will  come?" 

"  Of  course,"  said  Jonas.  And  while  they  briefly 
arranged  for  the  hour  and  place,  Mrs.  Boyce  car- 
ried Prudence  into  the  inner  room  to  make  her 
driving  toilet ;  and  then  Helena  moved  away,  list- 
lessly turning  over  some  draperies,  while  Fielding 
sat  regarding  the  artist  with  a  gaze  that  became 
entirely  compassionate.  The  room  was  very  still, 
yet  to  Helena  it  seemed,  a  few  minutes  later,  to 
vibrate  with  feeling  that  might  have  been  sound ; 
for  Prudence  returned,  and  one  of  those  silent 
moments,  full  of  action  and  significance,  occurred. 
Simmonson  sat  leaning  his  arms  on  the  music- 
stand,  his  eyes  seeking  Miss  Marlitt's  ;  Fielding 
also  regarded  the  girl  critically,  and  under  this 
double  gaze  an  air  of  shyness  or  coquetry  took 
possession  of  her. 

She  blushed  faintly,  and  absorbed  herself  in  but- 
toning a  refractory  glove.  Fielding  and  Helena 
moved  forward  together  to  offer  assistance,  and 
Prue,  with  a  little  sigh,  held  out  her  slim  wrist  in- 
differently to  either.  It  was  a  moment  of  confu- 
sion in  Helena's  mind.  She  never  knew  how,  in 
putting  her  own  warm,  soft  fingers  down  to  the 
little  wrist,  they  touched  those  of  Fielding,  and  by 
some  awkward  accident  were  a  moment  held  in 
his.  The  unexpected  contact  startled  him,  but  he 


96  PRUDENCE. 

looked  swiftly  at  Prudence.  Helena  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life  felt  the  warm  blood  tingling  in  her 
fingers,  and  rushing,  as  it  were,  to  her  heart  and 
cheeks.  She  kept  her  face  passionately  down-bent 
during  one  of  those  vibrating  eternal  moments  by 
which  we  are  told  mortals  should  count  time.  It 
seemed  to  Helena  at  last  that  she  must  move  or 
speak ;  but  Prudence,  whose  glove  was  now  com- 
fortably arranged,  came  to  her  relief  with  her  clear 
little  contented  treble. 

"  Thank  you,  dear,"  she  said,  and  prettily  kissed 
Miss  Armory's  pink  cheek. 

The  confusion  was  over.  Helena  felt  that  she 
could  meet  Fielding's  eyes,  and  trust  to  the  sound 
of  her  own  voice,  but  the  leaving  was  all  confused 
in  her  memory.  As  they  went  down  the  dusky 
staircases  she  was  faintly  conscious  that  Mr.  Sim- 
monson  was  saying  to  Prudence,  impressively — 

"Then  I  may  call  to-morrow  morning — you  will 
be  sure  to  see  me?" 

They  were  like  words  heard  in  a  dream.  All 
that  seemed  real  to  Helena  was  a  sense  of  folly 
if  not  weak-mindedness ;  but  a  whole  lifetime  may 
depend  upon  five  moments ;  and,  as  they  drove 
home,  Miss  Armory  was  conscious  of  having  made 
a  plunge  into  the  future. 


PRUDENCE.  97 


IX. 

FIELDING  awoke  the  next  morning  with  a  de- 
fined consciousness  that  the  day  was  to  mean 
something  for  him.  He  had  spent  the  evening 
previous  in  Guildford  Street,  and  while  Prudence 
was  absent  a  few  moments  from  the  room,  Mrs. 
Crane  had  discoursed  brilliantly  upon  their  social 
position.  She  had  been  writing  a  great  many  let- 
ters home.  To  her  own  family  she  had  suggested 
the  possibility  of  Prudence's  "  wearing  a  title." 

"  But  I  thought,"  said  Fielding,  in  mild  protest 
— "  I  thought  you  objected  to  the  aristocracy." 

Mrs.  Crane  was  momentarily  confused  ;  but  then 
such  perplexities  with  her  always  wore  the  air  of 
an  effort  to  be  strictly  lenient  in  her  judgment  of 
her  companion. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  slowly,  "  if  Prudence  marries 
here,  I  prefer  it  should  be  the  best.  I  think  Mr. 
Simmonson  will  speak  very  soon  to  her.  In  fact, 
Jonas,  I  don't  mind  telling  you,  as  an  old  friend  of 
the  family,  he  has  consulted  me  already." 

Jonas  had  found  no  words  to  answer  this,  and 
just  then  Prudence  returned,  wearing,  with  an  air 
of  brilliant  coquetry,  a  new  gown,  which  she  called 

7 


98  PRUDENCE. 

upon  Jonas  to  admire.  She  had  had  it  made  for 
the  Grosvenor  private  view. 

"  Mr.  Simmonson  designed  it,"  she  explained — 
"  or,  I  should  say,  he  and  Miss  Armory  between 
them." 

Jonas  felt  a  sudden  thrill  of  disgust.  It  was  to 
him  as  if  they  were  dressing  her  up  for  an  exhi- 
bition of  her  charms  to  the  vulgar,  gaping  admira- 
tion of  a  crowd.  But  the  gown,  he  admitted,  was 
charming.  It  was  a  serge  of  a  curious  shade  of 
red,  warm  in  tone,  and  yet  sombre  ;  the  sleeves 
were  puffed,  but  altogether  it  had  a  touch  of  al- 
most Puritanical  simplicity  about  it.  The  rich 
curves  of  the  girl's  figure  showed  to  perfection  in 
it,  and  Jonas  thought  he  had  never  seen  her  face 
lovelier  than  it  looked  above  the  lustrous  red  and 
the  narrow  frill  of  lace.  With  this  gown  was  to  be 
worn  a  bonnet  with  plumes,  and  short  wide  strings 
of  satin  the  color  of  her  gown.  Prudence  arranged 
herself  gleefully,  and  was  pleased  by  Jonas's  appro- 
bation. When  he  was  leaving,  she  followed  him 
out  into  the  hall,  Mrs.  Crane  being  absorbed  by 
some  important  letters  received  by  the  last  post. 

"  Dear  Jonas,"  the  girl  said,  looking  up  at  him 
with  one  of  her  old  sweet  glances,  "  you  seem 
troubled — what  is  it  ?" 

"  Not  troubled,  Prue,"  the  young  man  answered, 
searching  the  depths  of  her  eyes  half  sadly ;  "  but 
I  think  I  may  have  been  foolish  lately.  Tell  me, 


PRUDENCE.  99 

are  you  ready  to  have  me  come  to  you  to-morrow 
evening,  and  tell  you  all  that  I  have  to  say?" 

"  Oh,  Jonas  !"  she  answered,  eagerly,  "  do  !  I 
shall  be  so  glad !"  and  she  held  her  hand  out  for 
a  gentle,  affectionate  good-bye. 

Prudence  and  Mrs.  Crane  were  to  go  to  the 
Grosvenor  with  Mrs.  Boyce's  party,  and  it  was 
agreed  between  Miss  Armory  and  Jonas  that  he 
should  meet  them  at  the  gallery.  Accordingly, 
about  three  o'clock,  he  started  for  Bond  Street 
through  the  fog,  thinking  much  more  of  the  hu- 
man than  the  pictured  presences  awaiting  him. 
He  was  somewhat  confused  by  the  animation  in 
the  entrance  to  the  Grosvenor.  English  "private 
views  "  were  completely  unfamiliar  to  him,  and  the 
presence  of  aristocracy,  fashion,  art,  and  science 
rather  bewildered  him.  He  was  conscious,  as  he 
went  toward  the  staircase,  of  Mrs.  Poynsett's  tired, 
friendly  smile ;  of  Hergliebe's  dark  head  and  broad 
shoulders  ;  of  the  agreeable  Lady  Ericson,  to  whom 
Miss  Armory  had  introduced  him ;  and,  indeed,  ol 
nearly  all  the  faces  he  had  known  in  London  the 
past  five  weeks.  Then  he  found  himself  following 
some  ladies  in  curious  garments  up  the  staircases 
and  into  the  group  of  rooms.  There,  for  a  mo- 
ment, all  seemed  confusion.  The  walls  were  assur- 
edly richly  hung,  but  Fielding's  eyes  took  in  only 
a  sense  of  many  colors.  The  moving  figures  were 
as  diverse  and  as  peculiar  as  if  half  a  dozen  centu- 


100  PRUDENCE. 

ries  had  contributed  to  the  fashions  of  one  single 
hour;  and  Jonas  stood  still,  in  a  side  door- way, 
searching  among  the  quaintly  dressed  women  for 
the  figures  and  faces  that  he  knew. 

It  so  chanced  that  at  that  moment  Miss  Armory 
had  disengaged  herself  from  her  party,  and  was 
standing  before  one  of  Albert  Moore's  pictures. 
Fielding's  eye  caught  sight  of  her  figure  speedily. 
She  was  curiously  dressed,  and  the  young  man 
looked  a  moment  at  her  gown  of  dull-colored  vel- 
vet with  trimmings  of  rich  brown  fur — the  large 
bonnet  of  felt,  in  color  like  her  gown,  which  framed 
her  face  luxuriantly,  if  possible  adding  a  new  soft- 
ness to  her  calm,  patrician  beauty.  For  a  moment 
Jonas  enjoyed  the  impression  of  womanly  elegance 
and  grace  which  she  conveyed  without  feeling  any 
impulse  to  move  even  in  so  attractive  a  direction, 
but  before  she  had  left  the  picture  he  was  at  her 
side.  It  was  only  when  she  turned  her  eyes  to- 
ward him,  and  held  out  her  hand,  that  some  vague 
fluttering  remembrance  of  the  touch  of  her  fingers 
yesterday  crossed  his  mind ;  but  he  looked  at  her 
with  kindly  eagerness,  trying  to  dissipate  the  idea 
quickly. 

"  You  are  punctual,"  she  said,  smiling ;  and 
Fielding  remarked  that  she  looked  brilliant,  but 
with  the  unnatural  brilliancy  which  sometimes 
succeeds  long  waking  hours. 

"  I  like  to  be  punctual  in  all  things,"  he  said,  an- 


PRUDENCE.  101 

swering  her  smile.  "And  yet,  do  you  know,  Miss 
Armory,  I  stayed  awake  last  night  discovering  that 
I  have  been  a  most  lamentable  dawdler." 

Miss  Armory  continued  to  look  pleasantly  at 
him  without  speaking. 

"  Now,  I  suppose,"  Fielding  said,  "  it  won't  do  to 
chain  you  to  a  conversation.  I  must  find  Prudence, 
and  then  will  you  show  me  the  pictures  ?" 

He  laughed,  and  Helena  was  struck  with  the  al- 
most boyish  radiance  of  his  face.  He  looked  like 
a  man  who  had  been  performing  or  contemplating 
some  greatly  benevolent  action,  and  he  had  such  a 
large  cheerfulness  about  him  that  it  seemed  to  the 
girl  only  to  intensify  the  depression  of  her  own 
mood. 

"  Prue  is  in  there,"  she  said,  indicating  the  next 
room.  "  Do  you  see  the  little  court  about  her, 
Mr.  Fielding?  She  is  looking  perfectly  lovely. 
She  is  the  furor  of  this  most  critical  occasion." 

Fielding's  benevolent  demeanor  continued. 
"Ah,"  he  said,  "of  course  she  is  lovely!  of  course 
they  would  all  see  it.  I  feel  much  more  generous 
lately.  Perhaps  I  had  better  not  interrupt  her  just 
now."  The  memory  of  last  night's  good-bye  was 
still  in  his  mind,  the  feeling  of  Prue's  little  hand 
clung  to  his  fingers,  the  light  of  her  sweet,  uplifted 
eyes  seemed  to  be  the  radiance  that  fell  every- 
where about  hirn. 

"  Suppose   we   talk   a   little  first,"  he  said,  "  if 


102  PRUDENCE. 

I  may  take  up  a  quarter  of  an  hour  of  your 
time." 

Helena  assented,  and  they  wound  along  silently 
regarding  the  pictures. 

Since  yesterday  it  seemed  to  Helena  that  every 
purpose  was  changed.  She  had  no  longer  that 
alert  desire  to  make  Fielding  see  things  as  she 
viewed  them.  During  the  long  hours  of  the  night 
she  had  grown  conscious  of  many  conflicting  feel- 
ings ;  and  while  a  sudden  passionate  distrust  of  her- 
self, her  judgments  of  life,  her  basis  of  philosophic 
thought,  had  tormented  her,  yet  her  duty  toward 
Jonas  Fielding  was  always  luminously  distinct.  She 
had  a  fixed  purpose  in  her  mind,  yet  she  found  it 
difficult  to  put  it  into  words. 

I  think  all  her  life  Helena  will  remember  just 
that  moment  with  the  sharp  distinctness  our  pas- 
sionate, our  weak,  or  our  saddening  memories  have. 
There  is  a  picture  of  Mr.  Whistler's  always  connect- 
ed with  it.  If  she  owned  it,  and  saw  it  hourly  on 
her  wall,  she  could  not  more  clearly  know  its  misty, 
ineffable  tenderness  of  gray  and  green  and  blue. 
She  stood  still  with  Jonas  a  moment,  apparently 
studying  the  picture  intently,  and  then,  with  a  great 
effort,  she  turned  and  said,  gravely, 

"  Do  you  remember  my  '  Wait  ?'  "  . 

He  looked  at  her  brightly.     "  Yes — yes,  indeed." 

"It  is  done  with,"  she  said,  smiling  faintly.  "  I 
have  something  special  to  say  to  you.  Do  not 


I    THINK    YOU    ARE    A    MAN    TO    WHOM    ONE    CAN    SPEAK 

FEARLESSLY." 


PRUDENCE.  105 

wait.  I  think  you  are  a  man  to  whom  one  can 
speak  fearlessly.  Well,  then,  Mr.  Fielding,  if  you 
care  for  anything  in  life,  stretch  out  your  hand  and 
try  to  take  it  at  once  to  yourself." 

The  radiance  of  Fielding's  face  was  undimmed, 
but  it  grew  thoughtful. 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,"  he  said,  in  a  low  tone, 
"  and  I  shall  answer  you  fairly.  I  love  Prudence, 
and  she  loves  me ;  we  both  have  known  it  for  years ; 
but  long  ago  I  promised  Marlitt  not  to  bind  her  to 
any  engagement  until  she  was  twenty -one.  The 
time  had  passed  two  months  ago,  and  I  came  here, 
as  you  know,  on  my  way  to  Nice.  For  a  week  or 
two  the  fitting  moment  did  not  come,  and  then  I 
experienced  the  shock,  you  know,  of  finding  her  in 
such  strange  surroundings.  So  I  said  nothing.  I 
was  wrong ;  but —  Yes,  your  '  Wait '  did  seem  to 
me  impressive,  or  perhaps  it  urged  on  my  own 
thought,  but  it  is  all  right  now.  My  doubts  are 
gone,"  he  said,  with  the  smile  Helena  had  learned 
to  watch  for  curving  his  lips.  "  They  are  gone. 
To-morrow,  or  to-day,  it  shall  be  settled  between 
us;  but  thank  you,  thank  you — you  have  been  so 
good." 

Miss  Armory  was  silent  for  a  moment ;  then  she 
said,  in  a  low,  tired  voice,  "  Why  did  he  ask  you  to 
wait  ?" 

"  Marlitt?  Oh,"  said  Jonas,  skimming  the  past, 
as  it  were,  with  the  lightness  of  one  who  sees  an 


106  PRUDENCE. 

old  error  of  judgment  vanishing — "he  wished  Pru- 
dence to  be  admired  in  a  more  general  way,  to  see 
the  world  a  little.  My  life  is  to  be  an  active  one 
in  Boston,  but  a  hard  one  in  many  ways.  I  am 
not  rich,  and  my  wife  must  share  the  simplicity  as 
well  as  the  purposes  of  my  calling.  Prudence,  Mar- 
litt  said,  ought  to  see  the  other  side ;  and  she  has 
seen  it,"  he  said,  joyously.  "  Even  Marlitt  would 
be  satisfied  now ;  but,  Miss  Armory,  it  has  been  the 
one  passion,  the  one  thought,  the  one  purpose  of 
my  life,  apart  from  my  actual  duties.  I  did  not 
know,  I  was  not  sure,  at  least  until  yesterday,  how 
all  ends  had  been  tending  toward  this  result.  Life 
will  begin  now." 

Helena  was  still  motionless,  with  an  effort  to 
keep  even  the  faintest  shadow  of  her  feeling  from 
her  eyes,  which  were  resting  softly  on  his  strong, 
clear  face. 

"  You  must  make  things  clear,  perfectly  clear," 
she  said,  earnestly.  "  Do  not  leave  any  part  of 
your  bond  now  indefinite.  Is  there  anything  I  can 
do  or  say — I  mean  to  give  you  the  opportunity  for 
your  talk  alone  with  Prudence?  Come  to  Corn- 
wall Gardens,  if  you  like,  to-morrow  at  eleven — she 
will  be  there.  Let  me  do  that  for  you." 

Jonas  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  the  remem- 
brance of  Mrs.  Crane's  ambitious  murmurs  last 
night  crossed  his  mind,  and  he  realized  that  she 
might  be  an  obstacle  to  free  speech  with  Prudence. 


PRUDENCE.  107 

"  Oh,  thank  you  !"  he  said,  with  a  happy  light  in 
his  eyes.  "  We  know — Prue  and  I — just  the  one 
word  needed  between  us  to  give  me  the  right  to 
call  her  my  own.  Then  I  will  go  to  you  to-morrow, 
Miss  Armory." 

"  It  will  be  all  right,"  she  answered,  with  a  sweet, 
grave  smile.  Fielding  looked  at  her,  conscious  of 
the  influence  of  her  womanly  sympathy,  and  moved 
to  make  any  demand  upon  it  which  his  impulse 
suggested.  "  I  hope  you  know,"  he  said,  earnest- 
ly, "  that  if  it  were  for  her  good  I  would  resign  all 
thought  of  her ;  but  I  cannot  believe  that.  I  have 
cherished  her  since  she  could  walk,  or  think,  or  feel. 
She  learned  to  read  sitting  on  my  knee,  with  her 
head  against  my  shoulder.  She  brought  me  every 
grief  and  every  joy.  Oh,"  he  said,  radiantly,  "  it 
could  not  be." 

Helena  listened,  with  every  token  of  interest  pos- 
sible, in  silence.  Neither  spoke  for  an  instant,  and 
then  she  said,  gently,  "Oh,  I  wish  you  godspeed: 
she  is  yours  by  right." 

They  turned  to  look  at  the  pictures,  and  Hele- 
na felt  surprised  at  her  own  listlessness  in  leading 
him  into  the  region  of  the  "aesthetes."  Singularly 
enough,  all  such  interest,  where  he  was  concerned, 
had  vanished.  She  moved  about,  picking  out  pe- 
culiarities and  points  to  admire  or  contemplate  ; 
but  it  was  with  an  evident  effort.  She  was  eagerly 
sought  for  by  so  many  people  that  Fielding  good- 


108  PRUDENCE. 

humoredly  withdrew  while  she  was  talking  to  young 
Grierson,  and,  making  his  way  into  the  next  room, 
he  looked  about  for  Prudence. 

As  Helena  had  said,  the  girl  had  her  little  court, 
and  she  was  unquestionably  a  source  of  interest 
and  comment  to  every  one  in  the  room.  People 
passed  and  repassed,  looking  at  the  girl's  wondrous 
beauty,  half  shaded  by  the  bonnet  Fielding  had 
seen  last  night,  and  he  was  sufficiently  exultant  not 
to  notice  the  expression  of  complete  self-satisfac- 
tion which  had  crept  of  late  into  her  face.  In  fact, 
this  period,  emphasized  by  such  novel  occasions, 
was  one  of  intense  enjoyment  to  little  Prue.  She 
had  known  for  years  that  she  was  the  prettiest  girl 
in  Ponkamak,  but  the  homage  paid  her  there  had  a 
dull  flavor  which  made  it  uninteresting ;  moreover, 
it  was  different  from  that  rendered  in  London  in 
that  it  was  accompanied  by  nothing  splendid.  If 
she  were  the  prettiest  girl  in  Ponkamak,  it  was  in 
sober-colored,  ugly  parlors,  among  simply  dressed 
women,  who  loaned  each  other  paper  patterns,  and 
thought  a  black  silk  good  enough  for  any  occasion  ; 
but  here,  on  such  a  day  as  this,  for  instance,  to  be 
admired  in  such  a  magnificent  company  was  enough 
to  stir  any  girl's  pulses  —  and  Prudence  was  not 
proof  against  such  homage.  She  sat  on  one  of  the 
benches  with  her  little  court,  in  which  Mr.  Sim- 
monson  was  the  favored  courtier,  feeling  a  rush  of 
happy  color  to  her  cheeks,  a  thrill  of  something 


PRUDENCE.  Ill 

which  made  her  almost  hope  she  should  never  see 
Ponkamak  any  more.  She  had  no  adaptability ; 
she  had  little  or  no  power  of  even  imitating  what 
she  saw,  and  certainly  no  perceptions  delicate 
enough  to  appreciate  the  raison  d'etre  even  of  a 
social  form  or  feeling  which  was  entirely  new ;  but 
the  novelty  of  her  present  position  amused  and  in- 
terested her,  and,  in  proportion  to  her  lack  of  per- 
ception as  to  cause  and  effect,  she  accepted  every- 
thing offered  as  triumphantly  personal.  She  was 
glad  that  Jonas  Fielding  should  see  how  polite  peo- 
ple were  to  her,  and,  as  he  approached,  the  sweet- 
ness of  her  eyes  gave  him  a  welcome. 

Mr.  Simmonson,  who  was  in  close  attendance, 
looked  around  at  Fielding  with  a  careless  greet- 
ing. 

"Well,  Jonas  —  Mr.  Fielding,"  said  Prudence, 
with  a  little,  eager,  fluttering  manner  that  it  was 
difficult  to  define  as  either  animation  or  nervous 
enjoyment  —  "well,  Mr.  Fielding,  what  do  you 
think  of  these  pictures?  This  is  Art'' 

Prudence  pronounced  the  word  with  a  rapid, 
veiled  glance  at  Mr.  Simmonson.  That  young 
man  evidently  had  no  idea  of  contributing  any  but 
the  complimentary  faculty  within  him  to  Prudence. 
Mediocre  as  his  genius  might  be,  he  rendered  it 
the  tribute  of  silence  before  such  minds  as  this 
young  girl's. 

"Why,"  said  Jonas,  smiling,  "I've  only  looked 


112  PRUDENCE. 

about  a  very  little,  but  Miss  Armory  has  been  try- 
ing to  lead  me  upward." 

"  Miss  Armory  knows  what  she  is  talking  about," 
said  Mr.  Simmonson  ;  "  she  has  genuine  feeling, 
and  she  is  so  clever!" 

"  Oh,  isn't  she  ?"  said  Prudence  ;  "  and  she  says 
such  funny  things.  I  asked  her  once  how  I  ought 
to  talk  to  an  artist,  and  she  gave  me  one  of  her 
funny  little  looks,  and  said,  '  Have  you  any  defi- 
nite opinion  about  Prussian  blue,  and  —  and  — '' 
Prudence  hesitated  with  her  bewitching  air. 

"  Asphaltum  ?"  suggested  Simmonson. 

"  That  was  it !"  cried  Prudence,  gayly.  "  I  knew 
it  had  something  to  do  with  the  pavements  at 
home.  Well,  she  said,  if  I  couldn't  make  up  my 
mind  about  that,  I  must  try  and  understand  yel- 
low ochre,  and  that  was  all  I  could  get  out  of  her. 
She  would  only  laugh  and  tease  me  when  I  told 
her  I  really  meant  it." 

"  But  surely,"  said  Fielding,  when  they  had  all 
done  laughing,  "  Mr.  Simmonson  must  have  en- 
lightened you.  Come,  I  really  expect  an  opinion 
of  some  sort  from  you  now." 

"  But  Miss  Marlitt  objects  to  first  principles," 
said  Simmonson,  lazily,  and  evidently  wishing  art 
could  be  left  out  of  the  question.  "  She  won't  ad- 
mit anything  but  a  literary  quality  in  a  picture." 

"  I  like  a  nice  little  story  in  a  picture,"  said  Prue, 
gayly.  "  I  have  been  telling  Mr.  Simmonson  if  all 


PRUDENCE.  113 

this  is  real  art,  then  I'll  never  buy  anything  but  a 
chromo.  I  like  a  picture  one  can  make  up  a  long 
story  about." 

Simmonson,  who  looked  ineffably  dreamy  and 
willowy  leaning  against  the  velvet  bench,  was  con- 
scious of  a  very  matter-of-fact,  reasonable  moment. 

"  And  therefore,"  he  said,  "  you  give  the  painter, 
as  a  workman,  credit  for  nothing  at  all.  Any  pen- 
ny-a-liner might  do  his  work  for  him  ;  his  art  means 
nothing." 

Prudence  stared. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  she  said,  audaciously ; 
and  then,  glancing  in  the  direction  of  Simmonson's 
waving  fingers,  she  added,  "  Oh,  doiit — please  don't 
show  me  those  horrid  things  over  there !  Those 
pictures  all  look  so  hungry.  I  wish  so  I  could  give 
all  the  poor  people  Mr.  Burne- Jones  and  those 
other  gentlemen  paint  a  good  dinner.  They  want 
beef  tea.  .  .  .  Now,  Mr.  Simmonson  says  that  is  the 
highest  expression  of  art." 

Prudence's  cheerful  little  appeals  to  Jonas  struck 
Simmonson  as  the  most  amusing  sort  of  self-de- 
fence ;  the  three  people  were  so  utterly  asunder 
in  thought  and  feeling  at  the  moment,  that  it  was 
impossible  to  harmonize  a  single  pulsation  by  the 
aid  of  art.  Dimly  Jonas  realized  this,  because  the 
man's  nature  was  deep  enough,  his  intellect  suffi- 
ciently piercing,  to  know  that  there  existed  wide- 
ly untravelled  spaces  beyond  his  vision.  In  some 

8 


114  PRUDENCE. 

fashion  he  realized  that  this  question  of  art-mean- 
ings was  not  his  to  decide.  He  would  not  pretend 
to  say  how  a  painter  should  put  on  his  strokes — 
how  a  painter  should  illustrate  his  theme.  All 
that  he  felt  as  sacred  to  the  man's  own  genius. 
As  for  Simmonson,  he  was  indifferent,  only  wish- 
ing Prudence  would  allow  him  to  conduct  her 
about  the  rooms,  and  talk  to  him  in  amusing  gen- 
eralities. But  to  Prudence  the  moment  was  one 
in  which  she  felt  called  upon  to  be  critical,  and 
underlying  her  air  of  perplexity  was  a  flavor  of 
sarcasm  which  it  amused  her  to  see  Simmonson 
utterly  overlooked.  She  poised  her  pretty  head, 
looked  at  this  and  that,  and  laughed  a  great  deal 
at  nearly  everything. 

"  I  can't  make  out  what  Mr.  Simmonson  means," 
she  said,  finally.  "  He  talks  of  the  pictorial  and 
the  literary  quality  in  a  picture.  Which  was  I, 
Mr.  Simmonson,  when  you  painted  me,  please  ?" 
And  the  girl  darted  a  charming  but  very  flippant 
look  at  the  artist. 

"  You  were  everything,"  Simmonson  said.  "  Too 
much  for  me  to  paint.  Now  come  over  to  see 
those  Dutch  pictures.  Don't  refuse  opportunities 
of  enlightenment  that  may  never  come  again." 

Prudence  eagerly  complied  ;  and  Jonas,  after  ob- 
serving how  many  people  showered  attentions  upon 
her,  determined  to  leave  her  to  undisturbed  enjoy- 
ment of  what  he  was  pleased  to  call  "  the  hilarity 


PRUDENCE.  115 

of  the  occasion."  He  said  a  few  words  of  good- 
bye, and  then  tried  to  find  Miss  Armory ;  but  that 
young  lady  was  in  an  animated  group,  and  Jonas 
decided  to  go  home,  and  write  a  few  lines  to  Pru- 
dence which  should  explain  the  motive  of  his  visit 
to  Cornwall  Gardens  the  next  day.  On  the  way 
out  he  lingered  over  some  pictures  in  the  last 
room,  and  there  he  was  suddenly  conscious  of 
Miss  Armory  approaching  from  the  right  hand, 
with  a  searching  air. 

"  Oh,  you  are  here !"  she  said,  quickly.  "  Do  you 
know  I  wanted  so  much  to  say  a  little  word  to  you." 

Jonas  looked  pleased. 

"  I  want  you  to  promise,"  she  said,  rushing  into 
the  subject,  "  that  you  will  give  me  an  hour  of 
your  time — some  day  before  you  leave  London." 

"  An  hour?"  said  Jonas,  with  alacrity.  "  A  whole 
day,  a  week — any  time." 

She  looked  at  him  critically.  The  joy  in  his 
heart  still  found  a  reflection  in  his  quiet  eyes. 

"Well,  only  don't  forget,"  she  said,  "which 
means,  don't  be  selfishly  exclusive." 

Jonas  might  have  been  more  flattered  by  all  this 
if  something  very  impersonal,  almost  chilling,  had 
not  shown  itself  in  the  young  lady's  manner.  While 
she  talked  she  seemed  to  regard  him,  he  told  him- 
self, simply  as  an  abstract  means  to  some  end,  and 
he  was  sure  that  Miss  Armory's  interests  were  as 
often  purely  philosophical  or  intellectual  as  personal. 


116  PRUDENXE. 


X. 

Miss  ARMORY  certainly  contrived  to  make 
things  very  simple  for  Jonas  the  next  day.  When 
he  arrived  at  Cornwall  Gardens  the  butler  solemn- 
ly showed  him  up  into  the  same  little  room  which 
he  had  visited  before;  but  instead  of  Helena  idling 
over  rich  embroideries,  Prudence  was  seated  near 
the  fire,  motionless,  but  with  eagerly  dilated  vision. 

It  is  certain  that  Jonas  had  arrived  there  with 
no  thought  of  Miss  Armory  beyond  the  general 
consciousness  of  her  beneficent  genius,  yet  almost 
involuntarily  there  rose  to  his  mind  a  picture  of 
her  effective  figure  on  that  previous  occasion. 
Perhaps  he  had  not  appreciated  the  impression 
she  created  upon  him ;  perhaps  it  was  that  Prue, 
moving  to  the  window  among  the  aesthetic  luxu- 
ries of  the  boudoir,  seemed  to  bear  about  her  a  fla- 
vor of  Ponkamak  that  nothing  could  subdue.  In 
either  case  the  young  man  felt,  as  he  came  in,  a 
sensation  of  disturbed  preconceptions.  He  wish- 
ed, for  a  moment,  that  he  had  seen  Prudence  in 
Guildford  Street.  There,  at  least,  nothing  con- 
fused his  ideals. 

Prudence  stood  still  like  a  frightened  child ;  and 


PRUDENCE.  117 

when  she  gave  Jonas  her  hand,  it  was  with  a  look 
as  if  she  expected  a  rebuke. 

"  Prue  !"  he  said — he  was  longing  to  take  her  in 
his  arms,  to  hold  her  in  his  strong  embrace;  the 
first,  but  such  as  would  show  her  what  a  life's  shel- 
ter might  be — "  Prudence  !"  he  exclaimed,  "  oh,  my 
darling !" 

The  girl  was  trembling  visibly.  She  still  stood 
silently  regarding  him  with  a  timid,  beautiful  gaze. 

"What  is  it,  dear?"  said  Jonas.  "Don't  you 
know  I  ought  to  have  come  two  months  ago  ? 
The  time  I  agreed  to  wait  was  up ;  but  I  thought 
it  best  first  to  let  you  see  this — this  life  here." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Prudence,  still  fixedly  regarding 
him.  "  I  know — yes,  that  is  just  it,  Jonas  dear," 
she  added,  tenderly. 

"Just  what?"  said  Jonas,  to  whom  the  radiance 
of  belief  yet  gave  a  joyous  tone  and  impassioned 
expression — "just  what,  dear?" 

He  held  his  hands  toward  her;  he  made  a  little 
movement  as  though  he  would  take  her  at  once 
into  his  strong  arms. 

"  Don't  you  see?"  said  Prudence,  holding  herself 
aloof  from  him.  "  Just  as  you  say,  I've  seen — seen 
the  world.  I  don't  think" — she  looked  at  him 
with  a  sort  of  wild  pleading ;  Jonas  remembered 
the  same  look  when  she  was  a  child  asking  for  a 
midsummer  holiday  with  him,  or  for  a  new  doll — 
"  I  don't  think  I'd  like  to  be  a  minister's  wife." 


118  PRUDENCE. 

She  gave  a  short,  troubled  little  laugh,  but  did  not 
move  her  eyes. 

There  was  dead  silence. 

The  two  people,  young  in  years,  but  who  since 
early  remembrance  had  balanced  each  other's 
needs,  in  a  certain  fashion,  in  the  scale  of  life, 
stood  still,  drifting  out  into  the  wide  ocean  of  fare- 
well, while  they  looked  earnestly,  entirely,  for  the 
first  time  and  the  last,  into  each  other's  eyes.  As 
for  Fielding,  he  saw,  though  unconsciously,  far  be- 
yond. He  looked  into  the  limpid  brown  depths 
of  the  eyes  beseechingly  lifted  to  his,  and,  as  it 
were,  knowing  that  his  heaven  lay  there,  beheld 
an  earthly  hell  in  waiting. 

Prudence  wished  that  he  would  speak  —  would 
answer  her.  Accustomed  to  his  fulfilling,  if  not 
anticipating,  her  slightest  wish  —  accustomed  to 
thinking  that  Jonas  always  knew  what  she  was 
feeling  and  thinking — she  thought  his  present  be- 
havior unaccountable,  if  not  unkind. 

"Jonas!"  she  half  whispered.  She  put  out  one 
little  hand  slowly,  and  let  the  tears  that  gathered 
under  her  eyelids  fall  upon  her  cheeks. 

"  My  God  in  heaven  !"  he  said,  huskily.  He 
turned  away,  utterly  forgetting  that  the  woman  he 
loved  stood  there  in  the  flesh,  near  enough  to  be 
touched  or  scorned  by  him.  The  words  she  had 
uttered  mocked  him  with  the  horrid  force  of  a  de- 
lusion, yet  he  knew  that  they  were  all  too  power- 


PRUDENCE.  119 

fill  and  sincere.  He  crossed  the  room,  and,  sitting 
down  before  one  of  the  small  tables,  clinched  his 
fingers  mercilessly  into  some  lace  beneath  them, 
and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands.  For  that  mo- 
ment he  was  supremely,  utterly  conscious  of  Self. 
I  think  it  was  the  only  moment  of  Jonas  Fielding's 
life  in  which  the  needs  of  his  fellow -men  made 
no  impression  on  any  fibre  of  his  being.  He  was 
absolutely  himself,  even  to  the  exclusion  of  Pru- 
dence, standing  white  and  tearful  in  the  window. 
A  moment  more  of  silence  passed,  and  then  there 
fluttered  vaguely  into  the  young  girl's  heart  a 
sense  that  he  was  in  actual  pain.  The  power  of 
his  feeling  was  beyond  her,  but  it  was  too  great 
not  to  reach  her  in  some  fashion,  however  feeble. 

"Jonas!"  she  said  again;  and,  still  with  tears 
upon  her  face,  she  went  up,  laying  one  little  hand 
caressingly  upon  his  shoulder.  "  Do  you  know 
what  I  mean?"  she  said,  in  an  awe -struck  voice. 
"I  think  —  I  know  I  am  unfitted  for  it.  Another 
woman — even  I  a  little  while  ago — '  She  stopped, 
hardly  knowing  what  to  say,  for  it-  seemed  to  her 
as  though  explanation  must  be  futile.  He  raised 
his  face,  haggard  and  worn — old,  it  seemed  to  her, 
in  these  moments.  "  Isn't  it  better  to  tell  you  ?" 
she  continued,  nodding  her  little  head  sagely. 
"  Jonas,  you  would  never  have  wanted  to  make 
me  wretched — oh  !  miserable — " 

"  Oh,"  cried  the  young  man,  springing  up,  (t  for 


120  PRUDENCE. 

Heaven's  sake,  Prudence,  have  some  mercy !  Oh, 
my  child  !  I  free  you  from  our  poor,  shallow  bond. 
I  free  you  ;  but  let  me  go  with  some  mercy !" 

He  stood  looking  at  her,  with  an  air  that  would 
have  told  any  other  woman  something  of  the  mad- 
dening feeling  in  his  heart.  Prudence  looked  half 
frightened,  half  ashamed. 

"You  think  my  head  is  turned,"  she  said,  re- 
proachfully. 

"  No,"  said  Jonas,  "  I  do  not.  I  see  you  as  you 
are  yourself.  All  the  talking  in  the  world  would 
show  me  no  more  than  I  read  in  your  eyes." 

She  began  to  breathe  more  freely.  It  was,  at  all 
events,  some  comfort  to  feel  that  Jonas  was  not 
angry. 

"And  could  I  help  it,  Jo?"  she  said,  forcing  her 
little  hand  upon  his  arm.  "  Oh,  I  tried  so  hard, 
and  I  love  you  so  truly,  truly — oh,  Jonas,  you  know 
I  do ! — but  I  see  I'm  not  made  for  the  life  we  used 
to  talk  about.  You  will  be  better  without  me. 
You  will  be  glad  of  my  having  told  you  this." 

It  was,  perhaps,  an  evidence  of  Fielding's  com- 
plete understanding  of  the  situation  that  he  con- 
tinued speechless.  How  contribute  words  to  so 
dead  a  thing  as  what  lay  between  them  and  the 
past  ?  Yet  passionately  sweet  and  bitter  memories 
were  trying  to  free  themselves  from  this  bondage 
he  was  forcing  them  into,  crying  out  with  voices 
he  silenced  almost  with  disdain.  Gradually  Pru- 


PRUDENCE.  121 

dence  withdrew  from  that  attitude  of  soft  persua- 
siveness. She  went  over  to  the  fireplace,  begin- 
ning audibly  to  cry.  Jonas  remained  standing 
where  she  left  him.  Then  the  variation  of  moods 
was  nothing  to  him.  He  cared  as  little  for  his  own 
physical  sensations  of  actual  pain  as  he  cared  for 
Prudence's  weeping.  The  stronger  elements  of  a 
sudden  grief  were  surging  within  him,  and  he  felt 
that  he  was  standing  on  the  very  threshold  of  a 
ruinous  despair. 

"  Prudence,"  he  said  at  last,  in  a  hard  voice,  and 
wrenched  himself  around  facing  the  girl  — "  Pru- 
dence, tell  me  one  thing  on  your  honor :  has  there 
ever  been  an  hour  or  a  day  in  which  you  have 
truly  loved  me?" 

Prudence  looked  at  him  through  a  mist  of  tears. 

"  Jonas,"  she  said — "  Jonas,  don't  be  cross  !" 

"  Cross !"  He  echoed  the  word  as  if  it  rent  his 
heart  asunder.  "  Cross,  child !  I  could  be  noth- 
ing ever  like  that  to  you.  Tell  me  what  I  ask;  it 
may  influence  all  my  life." 

Prudence  paused.  She  searched  furtively  the 
recesses  of  her  gentle  little  heart,  the  background 
of  gliding  years  against  which  this  scene  rose,  her 
first  genuine  moment  of  perplexity  or  analysis. 
But  for  one  brief,  happy  summer,  a  few  months 
ago  —  but  for  this  fever  of  the  world's  praise  to- 
day— she  might  have  answered  differently.  As  it 
was,  "  Jonas,"  she  said,  contritely,  "  I  don't  think  I 


122  PRUDENCE. 

truly  ever  did.  But  it  was  only  lately,  when  I  saw 
this  kind  of  life —  She  glanced  around  Miss  Ar- 
mory's luxurious  room,  searching  involuntarily  for 
something  which  would  demonstrate  her  meaning. 
"  I  like  to  be  comfortable,  as  they  are  here.  That 
gentleman's  rooms — Mr.  Simmonson's,  I  mean — I 
enjoy  all  that,  and  I  know  I  shall  miss  it."  She 
paused  again,  realizing  that  all  this  luxury  of  form 
and  color  had  affected  her  but  partially ;  but  it 
served  to  define  her  distrust  of  a  grayer  life. 

Jonas  made  an  appeal  suddenly,  not  to  her  affec- 
tions, but  to  her  possible  higher  nature. 

"And  is  there  nothing  else  —  nothing  earnest, 
and  true,  and  real,  and  loving  in  my  life  ?"  He 
spoke  with  passionate  bitterness. 

"  Oh,  Jonas  /"  said  Prudence,  despairingly. 

"  Prue,"  he  exclaimed  —  and  now  he  had  the 
power  to  go  up  and  look  with  gentle  eyes  upon 
the  girl — "  I  am  going  away.  Perhaps  I  shall  not 
see  you  for  a  long  time  again.  But  remember  one 
thing:  if  you  need  me,  I  am  within  call.  I  shall 
never,  never  forget  one  littlest  thing.  Dear,  it  lies 
solemnly  within  me,  though  you  have  never  seen 
it,  and  I  can  remember,  with  the  grave  above  me, 
every  look  of  your  face,  every  word  and  hour  we 
have  had  together,  every  lightest  touch  of  your  lit- 
tle hand."  The  man's  voice  trembled  ;  he  was  too 
near  the  beauty  of  her  richly-tinted  face,  too  near 
the  tremulous  sweetness  of  her  uplifted  eyes,  not 


PRUDENCE.  123 

to  feel  his  heart  beating  with  dangerous  swiftness. 
He  stretched  his  hands  out,  grasping  hers  with  ea- 
ger intensity. 

"  Dear,"  he  said,  "  I  don't  know  what  you  mean 
to  do ;  but  I  know  they  want  you  to  marry  that 
man.  Pray,  pray  do  not  do  it."  Prue  hung  her 
head.  "  I  know  he  will  ask  you,"  Fielding  went 
on,  still  clinching  the  girl's  wrists ;  "  but  if  it  be 
so,  think,  think  before  you  turn  away  from  all  you 
understand  in  life." 

He  held  her  hands,  looking  at  her  with  a  dimmed 
vision,  yet  his  mind  was  travelling  backward  with 
painful  clearness  and  intensity.  He  saw  all  those 
vanished,  futile  years  with  their  measure  of  pas- 
sion, happiness,  and  belief,  with  their  meed  of  daily 
acts  glorified  by  the  sense  that  they  were  tending 
toward  the  crowning  joy  of  his  life.  Even  in  this 
tumultuous  moment  something  rose  in  the  man's 
breast  like  an  exultation,  in  that  he  had  gathered 
during  those  very  years  a  spiritual  force  capable 
of  some  resistance  against  what  seemed  to  him  the 
very  damnation  of  his  earthly  hopes. 

"  Prue,  Prue,  my  darling !"  he  said,  hoarsely,  "  you 
will  not  forget  it  all ;  some  day,  dear,  I  think  you 
will  know  what  this  love  laid  at  your  feet  really 
was.  Don't  let  it  grieve  you  even  then,  dear.  We 
— your  brother  Paul  and  I — always  meant  to  shield 
you  from  care  or  sorrow ;  even  in  this  trouble  I 
must  fulfil  his  part.  Prue,  my  child,  do  not  grieve." 


124  PRUDENCE. 

Come  what  would,  he  felt  that  he  must  leave  her 
without  that  tear-stained  face.  "  I  must  say  good- 
bye, dear,  now.  God  bless  and  keep  you  !" 

For  an  instant — as  a  bird  might  remember  some 
summer's  resting-place — Prudence  felt  like  putting 
out  a  hand  for  him  to  take  her  back ;  it  suddenly 
flashed  upon  her  what  a  great  part  of  her  life  he 
had  been :  and  he  was  going  forever — leaving  her 
— but  this  sensation  vanished  :  its  traces  were  a 
slight  pallor,  a  tremulous  sweetness  in  the  eyes, 
with  which  she  mutely  answered  his  good-bye. 

Jonas  had  no  definite  intention  of  any  kind 
when  he  left  Prudence  in  the  brilliant  room,  and 
made  his  way  down-stairs.  There  he  tried  to  col- 
lect his  thoughts,  and  in  doing  so  he  remembered 
Helena,  recalling  her  much  as  one  in  waking  tries 
to  conjure  up  the  faces  in  a  dream.  With  the  rec- 
ollection of  her  kindness,  her  gentle  womanliness 
of  yesterday,  came  a  sense  that  he  owed  her  some 
explanation  of  the  morning.  He  had  a  card  in  his 
pocket,  and,  standing  in  the  hall,  he  scribbled  the 
following  words : 

"  Please  do  not  speak  to  Prudence  about  this 
morning.  We  have  both  made  a  mistake,  that  is 
all.  I  pray  that  she  may  be  happy.  I  will  leave 
London  soon,  but  you  shall  hear  of  me  before  I 
go  to  America.  I  preach  for  my  friend  at  N — 
Sunday  fortnight,  and  after  that  I  shall  be  a  few 
hours  in  London.  Thank  you  ahvays" 


PRUDENCE.  125 

He  wrote  the  words  in  a  stupefied  condition, 
and,  asking  for  an  envelope,  he  enclosed  the  card 
to  Miss  Armory.  When  he  went  out  into  the 
street,  it  seemed  as  if  the  fresh  air  of  the  morning 
stifled  him. 


126  PRUDENCE. 


XI. 

HE  walked  on  and  on  for  more  than  two  hours, 
heedless  of  everything  but  the  impulse  of  move- 
ment, which  seemed  to  make  his  misery  less  horri- 
ble to  bear.  Then,  in  extreme  weariness,  he  found 
his  hotel,  and  going  up  into  his  room,  sat  down  at 
his  table,  staring  vacantly  at  the  drab-colored  wall 
before  him.  In  the  hours  of  that  horrible  day  he 
could  not  define  or  analyze  anything ;  that  his 
world  was  changed,  absolutely,  he  knew  with  an 
almost  mocking  clearness ;  but  what  was  left  in  it 
— even  what  any  realities  of  the  past  had  been — 
he  could  not  tell.  He  let  the  hours  pass  sitting 
at  the  table,  not  attempting  conclusions ;  not  seek- 
ing answers  to  the  questions  that  sometimes  made 
their  way  across  the  chaos  of  his  thoughts.  So, 
he  fancied,  the  whole  of  life  might  drift  by  him ; 
purposes,  ideals,  inspirations  seemed  gone.  He  had 
no  more  power  to  desire  or  hope  for  anything  than 
he  had  to  change  the  courses  of  the  heavens  or  the 
earth.  As  the  faint  wintry  dusk  gathered,  he  be- 
came conscious,  in  a  dreamy  way,  that  he  was  cold, 
and,  leaving  his  chair,  he  walked  about  the  room, 
still  thinking,  thinking,  but  with  no  clearer  percep- 


PRUDENCE.  127 

tions  of  what  it  would  all  tend  to.  Passion,  with 
all  its  highest,  most  ennobling  meanings,  had  so  far 
held  him,  joyous  or  serene,  above  the  pettinesses, 
the  commonplace  vexations,  of  his  life.  There  had 
been  hours  of  fierce  spiritual  contest,  but  never 
periods  of  despair,  and,  moving  slowly  about  the 
cheerless  room,  he  asked  himself  whether  this  was 
not  the  moment  of  supreme  test  in  which  he  would 
succumb.  Then  came  moments  of  sharp,  quiet 
agony,  when  he  thought  that  henceforth  and  for- 
ever the  joy  of  even  remembering  Prudence  must 
be  denied  him  ;  never  again  could  he,  sitting  at  his 
work,  think  of  the  day  when  if  he  raised  his  eyes 
it  might  be  to  encounter  hers ;  never  again  must 
he  think  of  her  small  needs,  her  tired  moments 
which  he  might  soothe,  her  joys  or  her  sorrows. 
To  count  all  these  as  in  some  fashion  his,  had  been 
for  years  the  ardor  of  his  life,  and  he  remembered 
these  parts  of  his  existence  with  a  sense  that  his 
dead  lay  stretched  before  him ;  not  flower-strewn, 
except  by  the  blossoms  of  passionate,  agonized 
memory  ;  not  peaceful,  save  with  the  calm  of  de- 
spair ;  not  reverently  prepared  for  a  tomb  at 
which  he  might  sit,  remembering  perfect  hours 
which  had  been  his.  He  could  not  say — 

"  To-morrow,  do  thy  worst,  for  I  have  lived  to-day; 
Be  fair  or  foul,  or  rain  or  shine, 
The  joys  I  have  possessed,  in  spite  of  Fate,  are  mine." 

.He  had  seen  the  joyousness  of  life  die,  and  all 


128  PRUDENCE. 

that  remained  was  to  sit,  as  it  were,  watching  it 
during  the  gathering  hours  of  the  night,  until 
heaven  opened  and  told  him  where  he  should  lay 
it  in  a  final  resting-place.  A  death  resurrectionless 
and  entire !  It  seemed  to  the  man  as  he  sat  there, 
the  winter  gloom  falling  thickly  about  him,  as 
though  the  room  was  peopled  with  phantoms  of 
some  lurid,  delusive  past ;  as  if  grim  shapes  hover- 
ed around  that  silent  figure  which  meant  his  Life ; 
as  if  the  scenes  and  hours  of  the  past  had  taken 
on  themselves  form  and  motion,  mocking  him  with 
voices  that  rent  the  air ;  ...  but  a  fevered  imagi- 
nation was  new  to  Fielding,  and  when  the  hide- 
ousness  of  such  fantasies  seized  him  he  would  rise 
and  walk  about  in  the  darkness,  trying  to  force 
himself  into  at  least  a  duller  frame  of  mind.  What, 
he  asked  himself,  what  was  it  he  had  believed  of 
her?  Never  once  had  he  doubted  her  simple  loy- 
alty to  their  unwritten  bond,  and  in  the  midst  of 
his  heart-cries  Jonas  did  not  rebuke  the  girl  for  not 
knowing  what  she  did.  That  he  had  idealized  her, 
that  she  had  never  really  loved  him  at  any  moment, 
lent  only  a  more  mocking  shadow  to  his  life.  That 
he  had  spent  the  sweetness  of  his  passion,  the  fer- 
vor of  his  hopes,  the  loftiness  of  his  soul,  upon  an 
idea,  sharpened  the  sense  of  injustice  with  which 
he  felt  himself  oppressed.  He  had  told  her  that  all 
the  talking  in  the  world  would  show  him  no  more 
than  he  read  in  one  look  of  her  eyes,  and  in  proof 


PRUDENCE.         „  129 

of  this  he  had  never,  from  the  first  word,  question- 
ed her  resolve ;  not  once  had  it  occurred  to  him 
that  persuasion  would  do  anything.  Five  minutes 
later,  had  she  come  to  his  arms,  he  would  have  re- 
jected her.  The  thing  that  had  seemed  his  had 
died  in  the  first  words  she  uttered. 

Time  was  nothing  to  him ;  not  even  calculable 
by  heart-throbs  in  the  hours  of  that  weary  day 
and  night.  He  did  not  leave  his  room ;  he  never 
thought  of  food ;  when  the  darkness  became  ab- 
solute he  lighted  his  candles,  and  in  doing  so  his 
eyes  fell  upon  a  desk  in  which  he  had  for  years 
cherished  any  letters  worth  remembering.  Paul 
Marlitt's  were  among  them,  and  with  swift  recol- 
lection of  that  fragrant  life,  so  blessed  in  its  end- 
ing, and  which  had  meant  so  much  on  earth,  Jonas 
turned,  and,  opening  the  desk,  took  out  the  faded 
packet  which  he  often  felt  his  unseen  Mentor. 

The  letters  had  been  written  at  odd  times.  Dur- 
ing any  separation,  Paul  had  exchanged  some  word 
with  his  chosen  friend,  and  turning  the  boldly  writ- 
ten pages  was  like  touching  the  harmonies  of  ten- 
derly familiar  sounds.  The  clear  sweetness  of  the 
past  arose ;  Jonas  felt  as  if  he  could  catch  again 
the  meanings  of  the  notes  sounded  in  his  younger 
days ;  he  read  on,  here  and  there ;  at  first  he  sought 
for  mentions  of  Prudence,  but  when  the  name  ap- 
peared he  found  it  was  not  possible  to  read  such 
sentences.  He  looked  out  bits  that  might  have 

9 


130  PRUPENCE. 

been  Paul's  voice,  speaking  Paul's  very  self;  and 
then  arose  a  swift  vision  of  Marlitt's  clear -eyed 
gaze,  his  thin,  eager  face ;  the  lights  and  shadows 
that  reflected  them  told  his  every  pulsation  to  his 
friend : 

"  To-day  I  walked  down  by  the  old  canal,  keenly 
enjoying  the  level  sweep  of  green  which  stretches 
on  the  other  side;  and  it  occurred  to  me  how  much 
happiness  is  to  be  found  in  simplicity.  When  Nat- 
ure wishes  to  impress  us,  she  never  does  it  with 
elaborations :  a  bit  of  meadow,  a  reedy  bend  in  the 
river,  a  sky  faintly  illumined  from  the  west ;  these 
would  have  formed  my  subjects  to-day  had  I  been 
a  painter ;  and  I  remembered  your  advice,  and  tried 
to  form  analogies  between  this  perfection  of  out- 
ward things  in  nature  and  the  inner  workings  of 
the  perfectly  balanced  mind.  But  while  I  realized 
the  justice  of  your  theories,  I  found  that  Nature 
had  laid  hold  of  me  so  entirely  that  she  demanded 
even  the  yielding  up  of  substrata  of  thought.  I 
felt  curiously  serene,  and  I  wish  I  could  send  you 
some  of  my  calmly  grateful  conclusions.  .  .  .  Are 
you  still  engrossed  by  Carlyle  ?  and  if  so,  tell  me 
whether  it  has  reached  the  final  note  of  the  cres- 
cendo, which  is  'Sartor  Resartus'  and  'John  Ster- 
ling.' I  think  I  like  nothing  better  in  A  Kempis  than 
the  forcible  illustration  in  '  Sartor  Resartus'  of  man's 
insignificance  as  one  of  the  multitude,  and  yet  his 
tremendous  inner  responsibilities — that  what  is  of 


PRUDENCE.  131 

importance  is  only  our  subjective  impress  upon 
other  minds.  Sometimes  I  want  to  walk  to  Chel- 
sea in  London,  if  only  to  touch  Carlyle's  hand ! 
After  all,  Fielding,  what  can  we  do  better  than  im- 
press other  lives,  lead  others  to  thought,  or  action, 
or  desire,  which  can  ennoble  the  world  ?  Can  you 
not  imagine  being  gloriously  happy  in  setting  up 
conscientious  intellect  as  a  sympathetic,  eager  com- 
panion, who  shall  point  out  and  lead  you  to  paths 
others  are  treading  or  must  tread,  and  say,  do  this 
or  do  that,  because  you  will  be  a  help,  or  a  prece- 
dent, or  a  suggestion  to  those  who  walk  beside  you 
or  come  after?  Isn't  this  better  than  even  martyr- 
dom ? — or  where  is  there  a  loud-sounding  heroism 
like  it  ?  ...  I  have  been  arguing  your  question  of 
comparison  between  St.  Peter  and  St.  Paul  with 
K .  He  likes  St.  Peter's  large-minded  humili- 
ty ;  but  for  myself,  I  prefer  St.  Paul's  complete  ac- 
knowledgment of  error.  It  lays  hold  of  me  and 
fascinates  me,  and  has  in  it  that  suggestion  of  '  up, 
up,  on,  on,'  which  we  lotus-eating  minds  need.  Se- 
date people,  given  to  few  variations  of  mood  or 
purpose,  perhaps  are  helped  by  the  more  forcible 
weakness  and  swift  remorse  of  St.  Peter,  but,  as  you 
know,  to  me  work  among  the  multitude  is  every- 
thing, and  I  feel  with  St.  Paul,  acting  for  all  the 
world — as  well  when  he  cried  out  slaughter,  believ- 
ing he  was  right,  as  in  speedily  saying,  '  Lord,  what 
wilt  thou  have  me  do  ?'  K declares  that  St. 


132  PRUDENCE. 

Paul's  influence  is  more  intellectual  than  spiritual ; 
but  to  me  this  only  renders  the  traces  and  the 
words  that  he  has  left  more  beautiful,  for  to-day  is 
the  day  of  intellect,  and  we  often  need  the  impulse 
first  in  the  brain  and  heart,  giving  up  soul  an  easy 
conquest  later. 

"  What  you  say  about  feeling  tired  of  yourself  I 
thoroughly  appreciate  ;  only  what  particular  differ- 
ence does  it  make  in  a  nature  which  cordially  leans 
toward  the  wholesome  ?  Take  the  mood  like  any 
bad  dream  or  bad  feeling.  We  need  all  the  repose 
from  self-dissatisfaction  of  this  sort  possible,  and  I 
think  one  can  create  a  clear-cut,  cleanly  philosophy 
for  just  such  depressing  occasions.  I  find  it  is  well 
to  try  and  begin  something  new  at  such  times 
which  shall  be  of  use  to  others.  Write  somebody 
a  letter ;  allow  some  bore  to  be  comfortable  at 
your  expense ;  or,  if  you  can  do  it,  go  into  the 
country.  Nothing  ever  brings  me  so  quickly  to  a 
sense  of  humanity  and  kindness  as  the  sight  of 
green  fields  and  leafy  trees,  of  some  old-fashioned, 
radiant  garden,  which  blooms  untouched  by  the 
rules  and  precisions  of  the  landscape  garden.  Do 
you  ever  get  a  sense  of  life  being  so  full  with  ap- 
preciations and  desires  that  these  blank  hours  can 
be  treated  as  welcome  guests  ? — the  periods  of 
sweeping  out  from  the  brain  all  the  fantastic 
things  that  float  in  unawares,  and  clog  the  chan- 
nels of  simple,  clear-eyed  thought  ? 


PRUDENCE.  133 

"  I  have  often  wondered  what  our  Creator  must 
think  of  the  way  in  which  some  of  his  creatures 
use  their  abilities.  To-day  I  visited  M 's  stu- 
dio, and  I  felt  with  old  papa  Wilson  like  saying, 
'  Sir,  that  sunset  is  a  lie,  sir — an  abominable  false- 
hood, sir!'  but  I  didn't  say  it,  simply  because  it 
occurred  to  me  that  my  mission  was  not  that  of 
art  criticism,  and  my  realities  might  not  be  his ; 
possibly  to  him  those  glaring  streaks  of  color  rep- 
resented the  same  thing  that  I  saw,  in  faint  splen- 
dors, in  mystical,  wonderful  harmonies,  illumining 
a  western  horizon,  faintly  flooding  a  palpitating, 
dusky-tinted  world ;  so  I  remained  silent  while  he 
talked,  and  I  thought  of  you  ;  how  strange  it  is  for 
a  man  so  cleverly  analytical  as  you  are  not  to  un- 
derstand that  you  cannot  always  find  or  make  peo- 
ple what  you  would  have  them.  Don't  you  know 
that  you  imagine  people  must  be  what  you  think 
them  ?  I  don't  think  you  idealize,  but  you  take 
for  granted.  Some  of  these  days  some  feeling,  or 
belief,  or  impulse  of  yours  will  receive  a  terrific 
shock  ;  and  then,  what  then,  Fielding  —  well,  the 
Deluge ! 

"  K came  in  very  early  to-day,  with  an  im- 
portant air  and  a  stout  stick.  I  knew  immediately 
it  meant  a  walk  in  the  country,  and  parsing  the- 
ology. Now  you  know  how  widely  he  and  I  dif- 
fer ;  yet  there  is  this  always  to  be  felt  with  K : 

he  is  very,  very  real ;  and  he  has  about  him  nei- 


134:  PRUDENCE. 

ther  false  sentiment,  exaggeration,  nor  pathos  of 
the  weakening  sort,  which  contrives  to  make  one 
feel  a  sense  of  compassion  overcoming  clever  argu- 
ment. This  is,  I  always  say  to  myself,  a  genuine 
man ;  and  in  the  presence  of  reality  like  his,  one 
properly  estimates  one's  self." 

Jonas  read  on  and  on,  page  after  page.  What 
he  had  thought  of  at  the  outset  was  to  put  himself 
back  into  the  old  frame  of  mind  and  thought  be- 
longing to  the  days  in  which  Marlitt's  words  were 
written  ;  and  undercurrent  was  the  desire  to  re- 
produce some  strong  sensation,  and  to  force  him- 
self to  believe  that  something  he  had  once  found  a 
lofty  influence  could  still  "remain. 

Dead  in  his  grave,  with  years  between  him  and 
visible  sympathy,  Paul  Marlitt  accomplished  a  pur- 
pose. Holding  the  faded  papers  in  his  hands, 
Jonas  woke  up  to  something  like  belief  in  a  life 
to  live  —  to  something  which,  if  still  shrouded  in 
gloom,  showed  the  tremulous  vibrations  of  a  com- 
ing light.  The  night  had  passed,  and  Fielding, 
standing  up,  walked  over  to  the  window  of  his 
room  and  looked  out  upon  the  red-streaked  wintry 
sky  —  the  silent,  grayly  colored  city.  Few  sounds 
were  audible ;  the  chill  of  the  daybreak  was  still 
unbroken ;  but,  as  he  looked,  there  swept  into  the 
man's  soul  a  feeling  that  underlying  all  that  silence 
was  the  throbbing  of  all  the  world — that  stretched 


PRUDENCE.  135 

before  him  were  the  dumb  evidences  of  a  passion- 
ate, pulsating  humanity,  not  to  be  forgotten,  not 
to  be  readily  cast  aside,  not  to  be  held  worthless 
as  helps  toward  perfection,  because  he  needs  must 
sit  beside  his  dead  for  the  hours  of  a  day  and 
night,  and  then  lay  it  reverently  forever  in  God's 
keeping. 


136  PRUDENCE. 


XII. 

MENTION  has  been  made  of  Miss  Armory's  wid- 
owed cousin,  with  whom  part  of  every  year  in  our 
young  lady's  life  was  spent.  But  it  was  decidedly 
unusual  for  this  Mrs.  Van  Leide  to  arrive  and  claim 
Helena  for  the  1st  of  February.  This  year,  how- 
ever, the  elder  lady  had  changed  her  usual  plans, 
and  one  morning,  when  Helena  had  been  walking, 
she  returned  to  find  a  summons  to  Boyle's  Hotel. 
Mrs.  Van  Leide  always  went  to  Boyle's.  She  said 
it  was  a  family  habit,  but  it  was  in  reality  more  of 
a  family  failing,  for  at  Boyle's  ten  times  as  much 
money  was  paid  for  everything  as  was  necessary, 
and  a  general  sense  was  diffused  among  the  guests 
that  they  were  elegant  and  exclusive  at  the  ex- 
pense of  personal  comfort.  Mrs.  Van  Leide,  how- 
ever, was  a  woman  who  clung  to  traditions,  and  I 
think  she  believed  in  Boyle's  as  the  one  perma- 
nently English  feature  in  her  life. 

Helena  and  her  cousin  were  not  only  bound  by 
the  ties  of  kinship  and  frequent  companionship, 
but  by  those  of  a  purely  accidental  friendship. 
They  had  so  much  in  common,  that  they  frequent- 
ly regretted  the  fact  that  nature  and  circumstances 


PRUDENCE.  137 

had  forced  them  into  a  certain  alliance ;  for  choos- 
ing each  other's  companionship  would  have  had 
for  them  a  flavor  of  keen  discernment  and  peculiar 
fitness,  which  they  felt  they  lost  in  having  a  reason 
in  their  family  connection.  When  they  were  sepa- 
rated, they  exchanged  very  analytical  letters ;  and 
when  Helena  learned  of  Mrs.  Van  Leide's  unex- 
pected arrival  in  London  she  felt  rebuked.  Of 
late  she  had  written  so  meagrely  that  the  past  two 
months  were,  so  far  as  genuine  life  was  concerned, 
a  blank. 

'Miss  Armory  went  to  Boyle's  without  delay,  and 
her  cousin  received  her  warmly.  She  was  a  wom- 
an scarcely  forty,  having  that  look  of  careful  fresh- 
ness which  we  are  accustomed  to  think  rare  among 
elderly  American  women,  yet  which  is,  I  think,  a 
prevailing  characteristic  in  many  States.  She  was 
blonde,  and,  if  not  pretty,  had  a  fascinating  smile 
and  extremely  fine  blue  eyes ;  her  manner  was  per- 
fectly charming,  but  there  was  a  brisk  air  about  it 
totally  incompatible  with  her  horror  of  anything 
unconventional,  or  out  of  the  accepted  fashion  of 
the  hour.  She  declared  she  got  the  best  of  every- 
thing which  the  world  could  give  her,  without  pay- 
ing the  price  of  explaining  her  conduct  or  ideas. 
She  dressed  superbly,  and  always  was  eager  to 
counsel  Americans  abroad  as  to  the  best  dress- 
makers and  most  satisfactory  shops ;  yet  her  incli- 
nations were  chiefly  literary.  She  thoroughly  ap- 


PRUDENCE. 

predated  good  work,  took  in  the  very  subtlest  ele- 
ment in  American  or  British  humor,  and  owned  to 
a  trifle  of  "temperament" — just  enough  to  make 
her  feel  averse  to  the  society  of  people  who, 
she  said,  had  "  limitations."  Helena  Armory  was 
avowedly  her  chosen  friend  and  favorite  cousin, 
so  that  the  girl's  orphaned  condition  was  by  no 
means  the  cause  of  Mrs.  Van  Leide's  systematic 
chaperonage. 

"  Well,"  Mrs.  Van  Leide  exclaimed,  as  Miss  Ar- 
mory appeared,  "you  didn't  expect  me  so  soon! 
To  tell  you  the  truth,  Helena,  I  got  tired  of  Ber- 
lin, and  you  hadn't  written,  and  I  thought  I'd 
come  over.  Then  I  wanted  to  go  to  that  festival 
at  N ." 

Helena  gave  a  start  at  the  words. 

"  Oh,"  she  said, "  I  forgot  there  was  to  be  a  fes- 
tival at  N ." 

"  Of  course,"  answered  Mrs.  Van  Leide ;  "  only 
it  is  a  little  late  in  the  season.  Now  are  you  ready 
to  go  with  me  there  ?  My  dearest  girl,  you  look 
horribly  pale !" 

Helena  protested  that  she  was  perfectly  well, 
but  she  certainly  looked  badly. 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Van  Leide,  "  you  see  it's 
well  I  came  over.  I  knew  you  wanted  looking 
after." 

Helena  was  standing  in  the  window  of  the  sit- 
ting-room which  was  always  devoted  to  Mrs.  Van 


PRUDENCE.  139 

Leide's  use  at  Boyle's,  and  at  these  words  she  felt 
a  guilty  throb. 

"  Why,  Margaret  ?"  she  said,  turning  toward  the 
elder  lady  with  a  smile. 

"  Well,  my  reasons  are  various,  but  chiefly  in- 
stinctive. To  begin  with,  you've  almost  totally 
neglected  writing  to  me,  and  I  knew  if  you  had 
not  something  inexplicable  in  your  mind  you 
would  not  have  been  silent." 

Helena  for  a  moment  occupied  herself  in  study- 
ing the  pavement  of  Dover  Street.  Then  she  said, 
slowly, 

"  Well,  I've  had  a  horribly  bad  conscience.  You 
know  I  am  not  usually  burdened  by  my  sins,  though 
I  acknowledge  them  freely ;  but  lately  something 
has  been  crying  out  within  me,  and  I  know  I  ought 
to  stand  here  this  very  minute  in  sackcloth  and 
ashes." 

Mrs.  Van  Leide  regarded  her  cousin  with  a  fine, 
appreciative  smile.  "  Go  on,"  she  said,  admiringly. 
"  What  was  your  sin  ?" 

"  I  can  hardly  tell  you,  because  it  would  involve 
so  many  things  and  people  you  don't  know  about." 

"  I  never  was  obtuse  yet,  I  hope,  my  dearest." 

"  No.  Well,  then,  I  am  afraid  I  have  been  the 
means  of  ruining  the  life — of  one  of  the  noblest- 
hearted  men  I  ever  knew." 

Mrs.  Van  Leide  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  be- 
fore she  said :  "  You  always  compassionated  your 


PRUDENCE. 

lovers.  Why  do  you  regard  this  particular  case  as 
novel  ?" 

"  Oh,"  cried  Helena,  averting  her  face  swiftly, 
"  this  man  was  not  my  lover !"  And  then,  with 
delicacy,  she  told  the  outlines  of  Prue's  story,  the 
events  of  the  last  six  or  eight  weeks.  To  Mrs.  Van 
Leide  the  impressive  feature  was  that  she  knew 
Prudence  Marlitt's  family. 

"  And  I  know  more  of  her  than  you  do ;  for  I 
was  at  Lennox  last  year — when  I  went  home,  you 
know,  for  Dolly  Barclay's  wedding — and  there  I 
heard  of  another  of  Prudence  Marlitt's  love  af- 
fairs." 

Helena  stared ;  her  cheeks  were  pale  enough 
now,  and  she  was  not  afraid  to  come  nearer  Mrs. 
Van  Leide. 

"  Oh  yes,"  pursued  that  lady ;  "  she  had  a  sort 
of  love  affair  with  young  Maybery.  A  capital 
match  he'd  be  for  any  girl ;  and,  if  I'm  not  mis- 
taken, he's  in  London  this  very  moment.  Is  Pru- 
dence actually  engaged  to  this  Mr.  Simmonson  ?" 

"  Oh  no ;  but  Mrs.  Crane  is  urging  it  upon  her. 
I  have  only  seen  her  occasionally  lately.  Just 
now  she  and  her  aunt  are  at  Holbrook  with  Lady 
Fanny." 

Mrs.  Van  Leide  remained  a  moment  thought- 
fully considering  the  position. 

"I'm  not  a  particularly  patriotic  person,"  she 
said,  at  last, "  but  I  always  think  transplanting  is 


PRUDENCE.  141 

doubtful  business  with  most  Americans.  I  believe 
I'll  give  George  Maybery  my  address." 

Helena  had  a  feeling  that  prevented  her  enter- 
ing into  farther  responsibilities  where  the  destinies 
of  others  were  concerned,  but  she  was  willing  to 
let  Mrs.  Van  Leide  occupy  herself  as  ardently  as 
she  chose  with  George  Maybery's  affairs.  It  was 
no  surprise  to  her,  on  entering  her  cousin's  sitting- 
room  the  following  afternoon,  to  find  a  tall,  good- 
looking  young  man  standing  on  the  rug,  and  whom 
Mrs.  Van  Leide  immediately  presented  as  Mr.  May- 
bery. 

Helena  had  always  enjoyed  the  study  of  types 
among  the  many  Americans  she  met  abroad,  and 
this  young  man  was  peculiarly  interesting.  He 
was  the  very  pleasantest  type  of  a  prosperous 
New  Yorker.  He  bore  about  with  him  a  flavor 
of  good  society  and  cheerfulness,  of  a  capability 
for  thoroughly  enjoying  the  sunny,  busy  side  of 
life.  He  was  good-looking,  with  light  hair  and  a 
clear  gray  eye,  and  his  smile  and  voice  and  laugh 
were  peculiarly  pleasant.  He  dressed  admirably, 
although  his  clothes  looked  new,  and  Helena  did 
not  require  to  be  told  that  he  was  a  member 
of  a  very  rich,  traditionally  great  firm.  Helena 
amused  herself  by  fancying  that  he  lived  expen- 
sively— say  on  Madison  Avenue  about  Thirty-sec- 
ond Street — that  he  belonged  to  the  Union  Club, 
and  knew  better  than  most  Americans  what  claret 


14-2  PRUDENCE. 

a  man  ought  to  drink  at  his  dinner.  He  was  thor- 
oughly contented  with  life,  and  joyous  in  his  way 
of  receiving  its  blessings,  and  before  she  had  talked 
with  him  ten  minutes  Miss  Armory  perceived  that 
he  was  violently  in  love  with  Prue.  He  had  met 
her  during  that  one  summer  in  which  Prue  had 
been  away  from  Ponkamak,  and  Helena  gathered 
that  some  silly  interference  on  the  part  of  Mr. 
Maybery's  sister  had  broken  up  what  might  have 
been  an  engagement.  His  sister  came  from  Pon- 
kamak, and  he  had  known  Jonas  Fielding  at  Yale. 

"  Excellent  fellow !"  said  Mr.  Maybery,  with  his 
honest,  good-humored  smile.  "  I  never  could  cram 
as  he  did,  but  I  always  enjoyed  watching  him.  He 
and  Paul  Marlitt  were  the  David  and  Jonathan  of 
T .  You  never  knew  him  ?" 

To  Helena  the  man's  name  had  been  in  a  sort 
of  fashion  consecrated  by  the  story  Jonas  had  told 
her.  She  changed  the  subject. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Maybery,"  she  said,  pleasantly,  "  are 
you  going  down  to  Holbrook  to  see  Prue?" 

The  young  man  hesitated  a  little. 

"  Well,  now,"  he  said,  inquiringly,  "  I  suppose  I 
could  do  that  over  here  —  just  run  down  there 
and  make  a  call  on  a  young  lady  I  knew  in  the 
house?" 

"  Oh,  certainly ;  but  you  may  have  the  way 
smoother  than  that.  I  know  Lady  Fanny  well, 
and  I'll  gladly  give  you  a  letter  to  her." 


PRUDENCE.  143 

Mr.  Maybery  expressed  himself  as  much  pleased 
by  this ;  but  in  some  way  it  was  peculiarly  distress- 
ing to  Helena  to  discuss  Prudence  Marlitt  with 
any  one.  She  felt  jarred  by  even  the  slight  air 
of  proprietorship  in  the  young  man's  manner.  He 
was  confident,  she  could  see,  of  success  in  anything 
he  undertook,  and  he  departed  in  a  most  good-hu- 
mored frame  of  mind,  leaving  upon  Helena  an  im- 
pression of  wholesome,  happy  prosperity. 

"  He  is  just  the  man  to  enjoy  having  his  wife 
admired  by  every  one  else,"  she  said  to  Mrs.  Van 
Leide  when  they  were  alone. 

"And  if  Prudence  develops  into  a  fine  lady  of 
fashion,  he'll  approve  of  her  all  the  more." 

Margaret  Van  Leide  had  been  closely  studying 
her  cousin  since  her  arrival  in  London,  and  her 
critical  faculty  seemed  to  receive  a  new  impetus. 

"  Helena,"  she  said,  meaningly,  "  are  you  getting 
cynical  ?" 

"Getting!"  said  Helena,  with  a  light  laugh.  "I 
think  I  always  was — and  tried  to  be — a  little." 

"Then  you  are  more  so  than  ever,  and  I  wish 
you  would  get  married." 

"And  make  the  tendency  a  characteristic?" 

"  Come,  Lena,  don't  be  idiotic." 

"  I  don't  mean  to  be,"  laughed  Helena,  "  and 
therefore  let  us  make  our  conversation  more  profit- 
able. I  came  to-day  to  tell  you  I  am  quite  ready 
to  start  for  N to-morrow." 


144  PRUDENCE. 

Mrs.  Van  Leide  made  no  answer.  She  endured 
ten  minutes  of  silence,  looking  now  and  then  at 
her  cousin  with  rebuke  or  pity  in  her  eyes. 

"  What  did  I  tell  you,  Margaret  ?"  said  the  girl, 
finally.  "  That  I  had  a  bad  conscience.  Well,  so 
I  have ;  but  I  don't  think,  apart  from  that,  I'm  con- 
scious of  anything  except — that  I  love  you  better 
every  day." 

As  Miss  Armory  spoke  she  rose  and  moved  over 
to  the  window.  When  she  turned  again  there  were 
traces  of  tears  upon  her  face. 


PRUDENCE.  14:5 


XIII. 

HELENA  ARMORY  always  declared  that  with 
each  impression  of  the  English  country  some  new 
sense  of  being  and  exhilaration  came  to  her.  Jour- 
neying in  February  to  N with  Mrs.  Van  Leide 

was,  it  seemed  to  her,  the  one  soothing  influence  life 
could  just  then  have  offered  her.  She  was  not  in 
a  mood  to  demand  excitement.  The  peaceful  win- 
ter landscape,  the  solemnities  of  an  English  cathe- 
dral town,  the  harmonies  of  the  approaching  festi- 
val, were  all  that  she  demanded  of  outward  things  ; 

and  that  Jonas  Fielding  was  to  preach  at  N 

on  Sunday  night  was  remembered  at  times,  with  a 
half-sad  conjecture  as  to  how  she  would  find  time 
and  the  ruin  of  his  hopes  had  affected  him. 

The  first  days  at  N passed  by  quickly  enough. 

The  town  is  large,  but  full  of  sleepy  nooks  in  which 
red  brick  and  ivy  and  restless  rookeries  complete 
the  charm  felt  here  and  there  and  everywhere  by 
the  visitor  who  cares  for  suggestive  architecture 
and  the  influence  of  bricks  and  mortar.  Helena 
had  several  hours  of  each  day  to  herself,  when  Mrs. 
Van  Leide  attended  rehearsals,  to  which  she  went 
with  her  usual  zeal.  Helena,  declaring  that  she 

10 


146  PRUDENCE, 

preferred  to  take  the  affair  in  perfection,  devoted 
these  hours  to  idle  wanderings  about  the  town, 
discovering  every  bit  of  the  old  cathedral,  and 
learning  above  all  things  to  love  the  cosy  river- 
bank,  which  finds  appreciators  only,  I  think,  among 
artists,  who  like  its  gradations  of  feathery  willows 
and  long  stretches  of  level  meadows,  its  occasional 
old  warehouses,  and  queer  anchors  for  the  barges 
that  dreamily  come  and  go.  The  winter  gave  no 
pallor  to  this  scene,  but  then  the  English  winter 
rarely  does  that  in  any  place;  here,  however,  the 
approach  of  February  had  brought  about  a  touch 
of  spring.  There  was  certainly  no  warmth,  but 
growing  things  looked  ready  for  the  hand  of  lov- 
ing green  to  lead  them  into  blossom.  There  was 
almost  a  fragrance  in  the  cold,  still  air,  and  the 
sky  was  radiantly  blue,  with  here  and  there  the 
feathery  lights  of  clouds  that  it  seemed  never 
could  mean  rain. 

Helena  did  not  know  then  how  much  she 
thought  of  in  those  solitary  walks  in  which  she 
gave  herself  up  to  enjoyment  of  the  country;  but 
later  the  whole  place  came  back  to  her,  bit  by  bit, 
associated  with  thoughts  that  meant  the  deepest 
pulsations  of  her  being.  The  changing  colors  on 
the  bank;  the  vivid  reflections  of  objects  in  the 
water,  growing  denser  as  the  daylight  waned ;  the 
faint  green ;  the  windy  meadows  ;  the  figures  of 
boatmen  and  towns-people  passing  to  and  fro ;  the 


PRUDENCE.  147 

crowning  solemnity  of  the  cathedral  spires,  whose 
^ray  tones  she  caught  always  on  her  homeward 
walks — all  these  recurred  to  her  as  forces  connect- 
ed with  that  period  of  mental  conflict — as  to  be  the 
eternal  associations  of  moments  and  hours  which 
might  affect  or  move  forward  her  whole  life.  She 
had  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  man  who  rowed 
a  small  ferry-boat  across  the  river  at  a  certain 
point,  and  in  two  or  three  days  they  were  on  inti- 
mate terms  of  almost  friendship.  He  lived  in  a 
quaint  little  house  with  a  sixteenth -century  win- 
dow bulging  over  the  river,  and  his  wife,  as  Helena 
soon  found  out,  was  bedridden.  The  man  was  a 
tall,  brown-faced  countryman,  with  an  {imaginative 
temperament  qualified  by  the  driest,  dullest  of  act- 
ual surroundings  ;  but  to  Helena  his  very  simplic- 
ity was  refreshing  as  was  the  calm  stillness  of  the 
country.  She  told  Mrs.  Van  Leide  she  was  try- 
ing to  see  real  people,  and  to  find  out  whether  she 
were  one  of  them  herself,  or  a  terrible  imposition. 

"  If  one  only  could  have  talked  to  Adam,  for  in- 
stance !"  she  remarked. 

"  But  Adam  would  have  been  so  unsatisfactory," 
answered  Mrs.  Van  Leide — "  a  man  actually  inex- 
perienced." 

"  But  so  deliciously  fresh,"  said  Helena.  "  Some- 
times I  think  I  am  all  warped  and  distorted  from 
having  lived  among  so  many  fascinating  sugges- 
tions. I  am  so  anxious  to  discover  the  real  me. 


148  PRUDENCE. 

Just  as  I  find  I  am  saying  or  doing  something  nice 
or  interesting,  or  foolish  or  weak-minded,  I  realize 
it  is  because  I  have  seen  or  heard  or  felt  the  sug- 
gestion from  somebody  else." 

"And  if  you  discover  the  real  you,  and  find 
yourself  full  of  a  primitive  simplicity,  what  shall 
you  do?" 

"  I  will  be  charmed,"  said  the  girl.  "  But  I'm 
afraid  that  will  never  come  to  pass.  The  more  I 
see  of  my  old  boatman,  the  more  I  realize  how  far 
I  have  drifted  away  from  the  clear  Puritan  stock  I 
came  from." 

"  The  most  hampered  of  all  people !"  ejaculated 
Mrs.  Van  Leide,  who  was  herself  proudly,  intense- 
ly Knickerbocker. 

Helena  made  up  her  mind  not  to  be  so  analyt- 
ical that  she  would  allow  herself  no  quiet  enjoy- 
ment with  the  old  boatman  and  his  wife.  She 
gave  herself  up  to  simple,  frank  talks  with  them, 
and  asked  nothing  for  effect.  Their  influence  she 
declared  to  be  wholesome,  even  if  it  did  not  en- 
lighten her ;  and  the  sanded  floor  of  the  cottage, 
the  cleanly  furniture,  the  old  windows  blooming 
with  flowers,  the  bed  with  its  patient  sufferer — all 
became  active  influences  in  her  memory  when  this 
period  was  long  past.  The  humble  people  invest- 
ed her  with  no  false  charm.  They  had  none  of 
that  power  of  idealizing  which  bek>ngs  to  the  cult- 
ured classes.  To  them  she  was  a  "  bonny,  gentle 


PRUDENCE.  149. 

young  lady,"  and  she  was  all  of  that.  They  took 
things  just  as  they  found  them,  and  gave  nothing 
a  pernicious  influence  by  exaggerating  its  power 
or  effect.  From  her  quiet  walks  and  her  humble 
friendships  Helena  drifted,  with  a  certain  sense  of 
surprise,  into  the  rushing,  splendid  harmonies  of 
the  festival.  There  had  been  three  days  of  music 
that  lifted  her  into  the  regions  of  exaltation,  when 
the  Sunday  came  which  she  knew  would  bring 

Jonas  Fielding  to  N . 

The  day  dawned  dismally.  Toward  sunset,  as 
Helena  looked  out  upon  the  windy,  rain -washed 
streets,  she  wished  that  he  had  come  when  the 
peace  and  calm  of  the  old  town  might  have  sooth- 
ed him.  She  wondered  if  he  would  not  be  newly 
chilled  by  confronting  a  strange  town,  strange  peo- 
ple, when  Nature  so  completely  refused  her  smiles; 
but,  had  she  known  the  truth  at  that  moment,  she 
would  have  seen  that  Fielding's  mood  was  one  in 
which  the  elements  meant  nothing  to  him.  He 
had  suspended  all  sense  of  what  affected  him  out- 
wardly ;  and  as  he  made  his  way  through  the  dark- 
ening, wet  streets  of  the  town,  he  was  thinking  only 
that  he  was  to  be  a  voice  to  the  people.  Lives, 
human  beings  with  souls  and  unborn  deeds  to  be 
moved  or  roused  into  life  by  what  he  might  say, 
were  perhaps  waiting.  Jonas  left  cynicism,  dainty 
philanderings  of  the  mind,  fantastic  ideas  of  duty 
or  well-being,  utterly  in  the  background.  He  had 


150  PRUDENCE. 

come  from  London  to  N by  a  train  that  left 

him  only  an  hour  before  the  time  for  service,  and 
this  period  he  spent  in  hastily  thinking  over  his 
sermon.  It  was  unwritten,  yet  it  had  been  all 
thought  out.  Had  he  known  that  Miss  Armory 
was  to  be  among  his  listeners,  it  would  have  star- 
tled him  into  some  confusion.  But  why  should 
the  words  of  his  text  even  be  remembered  by  her 
ears? 

"  Woe  unto  thee,  Chorazin  !  woe  unto  thee,  Beth- 
saida  !  for  if  the  mighty  works  which  were  done  in 
you  had  been  done  in  Tyre  and  Sidon,  they  would 
have  repented  long  ago  in  sackcloth  and  ashes" 


PRUDENCE.  151 


XIV. 

HE  had  not  been  ten  minutes  in  the  pulpit — 
the  moderate  confusion  of  an  unfamiliar,  irregularly 
lighted  edifice,  a  large,  unknown  congregation,  was 
just  passing  away — when  he  became  conscious  of 
eyes,  of  lips,  of  the  grace  of  a  certain  figure  he  had 
seen  before,  and,  peering  a  little  into  a  space  illu- 
mined fitfully,  he  made  out  that  the  tranquil,  mo- 
tionless figure  and  face  belonged  to  Miss  Armory. 
The  man  was  in  that  frame  of  mind  which  is  not 
due  to  mental  excitement,  yet  has  the  power  of 
making  a  surprise  almost  impossible.  He  looked 
at  her  without  any  feeling  of  wonderment ;  he  saw, 
without  thinking  of  it,  the  luxurious  elegance  of 
her  dress  and  bearing  in  the  midst  of  the  duller 
people  about  her ;  and  though  he  never  sought  her 
eyes,  he  began  and  ended  his  sermon  conscious  that 
she  sat  there  exacting  from  him  his  most  prophet- 
ic. But  he  had  the  strong  sense  of  power,  the  ela- 
tion, which  a  listening  multitude  give.  So  far  had 
the  man  wrenched  himself  in  the  last  fortnight 
from  the  need  of  individuals,  that  Helena  seemed 
to  him  only  a  stronger,  more  concentrated,  expres- 
sion of  human  needs  ;  the  faces  of  the  crowd  never 


152  PRUDENCE. 

closed  hers  in,  yet  it  seemed  to  him  only  as  though 
by  some  subtle  power  she  was  the  final  emphasis 
of  their  wants.  Gradually  the  girl's  shining  eyes 
and  sweet,  high-bred  face  grew  to  him  luminously 
significant.  She  seemed,  with  her  earnest  look,  to 
be  saying,  "  I  am  part  of  a  need — a  need  belonging 
to  all  this  palpitating  multitude  of  poor  humanity." 
Jonas,  as  I  have  said,  preached  from  only  a  few 
hurried  notes,  so  that  he  kept  no  record  of  that 
sermon.  Later,  he  could  not  have  put  any  of  its 
sentences  together,  but  it  seemed  always  to  express 
some  new  era  in  his  life.  There  was  an  absolute 
freedom  from  the  sensational,  yet  the  tension  of 
the  past  fortnight  had  resulted  in  a  peculiar  eleva- 
tion of  thought,  and  he  poured  forth  his  words  with 
a  direct  appeal  to  the  rarely  stirred  and  more  ex- 
alted regions  of  the  human  soul.  His  voice  startled 
Helena  by  its  sweetness.  There  wras  a  cadence  in 
it  that  would  have  given  harsher  words  a  charm  ; 
but,  tremendous  as  was  his  text,  he  had  little  that 
was  denunciatory  in  his  discourse.  That  "  Woe  to 
Chorazin"  he  applied  to  every  human  soul,  forming 
one  of  a  multitude,  and  he  called  upon  his  hearers 
to  bear  without  despondency,  to  be  exalted  with- 
out mock  enthusiasm,  to  be  active  without  exag- 
gerations. These  were  simple  suggestions,  yet  he 
endowed  them  with  the  richness  of  his  own  recent 
mental  and  spiritual  experiences ;  out  of  the  chaos 
pf  his  misery  and  bewilderment  he  had  come  with 


PRUDENCE.  153 

certain  new  simple  forces,  which  he  gave  freely, 
nay,  joyously,  to  others.  He  said  he  meant  to 
preach  simplicity ;  and  the  disjointed  sensations  of 
the  past  few  weeks  seemed  to  have  resulted  in 
calm,  clearly -flowing  lines.  As  he  preached,  he 
dimly  remembered  scenes  through  which  he  had 
passed  —  scenes  which  a  merely  casual  observer 
might  have  been  only  amused  by,  but  which  to 
Jonas  Fielding,  of  Ponkamak,  in  one  way  typified 
that  "  Chorazin  "  of  old  of  which  the  prophetic  Woe 
had  been  uttered.  He  did  not  mean  to  impress 
any  of  his  hearers  with  horror  or  dismay ;  he  preach- 
ed, as  I  say,  intensely  conscious  of  one  hearer ;  of 
the  soft,  eager  face,  full  of  indefinable  charm,  and 
which  was  perhaps  the  nearest  approach  to  a  pure- 
ly aesthetic  influence  he  had  ever  felt ;  yet  his  words 
were  uttered  for  all  those  about  her,  and  at  his 
heart  was  a  passionate  demand  for  absolute  sin- 
cerity and  single-mindedness.  The  effect  of  every- 
thing he  had  seen  and  felt  of  late  was  to  make  him 
long  to  clear  from  his  mind  and  heart  and  soul  all 
that  was  not  grandly  simple.  He  had  a  sensation 
that  the  best  and  truest  things  were  the  most  easi- 
ly understood,  yet  that  they  lay  shrouded,  hidden, 
distorted  by  the  fancies  and  follies  of  the  to-day  in 
human  weakness.  Had  he  in  his  mind  any  hours 
which  he  had  passed  through  when  he  gently  but 
eagerly  told  his  listeners  of  that  simple  means  to 
perfection  ?  As  I  have  said,  vague  memories  of 


154:  PRUDENCE. 

the  last  few  weeks  floated  into  his  mind,  oppress- 
ing him  for  moments,  but  he  was  unconscious  that 
he  meant  more  than  an  elaboration  of  the  text 
which  should  impress  others  as  it  had  always  im- 
pressed him.  He  believed,  in  fact,  that  he  was 
using  no  arguments  which  had  specially  applied  to 
himself,  strongly  conscious  that  he  must  shake  off 
forever  the  influence  of  prejudice.  Personally  the 
man's  strong  face  and  figure  were  deeply  impres- 
sive. Helena  had  seen  at  once  that  he  was  hag- 
gard and  worn,  that  he  had  strangely  depressed 
lines  about  his  mouth  and  eyes ;  but  this  she  had 
expected;  she  had  almost"  dreaded  to  see  him; 
but  what  burst  upon  her  as  entirely  unlocked  for 
was  the  magnetism,  the  power,  in  his  manner.  His 
voice  rung  through  the  building,  and  yet  it  had  a 
cadence  that  was  like  a  whisper.  He  was  utterly 
self -forgetful.  To  Helena  he  seemed  to  be  the 
concentration  of  many  forces  which  she  had  been, 
as  it  were,  half  conscious  of  within  herself. 

The  rain  was  beating  violently  against  the  tall 
windows  of  the  chapel  as  Jonas  finished  his  ser- 
mon. Service  being  ended,  Helena  moved  quietly 
away,  followed  by  her  maid.  She  had  written  a 
few  lines  on  a  card,  and  sent  them  into  the  vestry- 
room  for  Jonas,  and  she  now  half  regretted  that 
she  had  not  asked  him  to  come  to  their  hotel  that 
evening,  for  she  felt  the  impulse  to  see  and  talk  to 
him  stronger  as  the  time  went  on.  The  tranquil- 


PRUDENCE.  157 

lity  which  had  possessed  her  of  late  seemed  to  have 
vanished.  She  was  throbbing  with  excitement ; 
she  defined  nothing,  made  no  distinctions  between 
the  joyous  and  the  remorseful,  the  exalted  and  the 
depressed.  She  was  simply  full  of  strange  emo- 
tions, and  Avas  bewildered  by  both  them  and  her- 
self. The  carriage  from  the  hotel  was  waiting,  and 
she  was  standing  in  the  porch  of  the  chapel  secur- 
ing her  wraps  a  little  more  conveniently,  and  as 
well  peering  into  the  wet  darkness,  to  be  sure  the 
door  of  the  vehicle  was  comfortably  held  open, 
when  she  heard  her  name  spoken,  and  looked  up 
to  meet  Fielding's  gaze  near  her  own.  It  was  so 
sudden  an  answer  to  thought,  that  she  smiled  al- 
most tearfully.  The  young  man  looked  down  at 
her  with  a  kindly,  gentle  gaze. 

"  I  am  so  much  obliged  to  you  for  letting  me 
know  that  you  were  here,"  he  said,  in  a  voice 
which  yet  held  the  vibrations  of  half  an  hour  ago ; 
"  and  I  will  surely  come  to-morrow  at  ten  o'clock, 
as  you  said.  I  thank  you."  He  had  taken  her 
hand  a  moment  in  his,  and  as  he  let  it  fall  he 
said,  in  a  tone  Helena  always  remembered,  "  God 
bless  you  !" 

She  made  no  effort  to  speak,  but  she  looked  at 
him  earnestly. 

Every  line  of  his  tall  figure  and  strong  face  in 
the  rain  and  wind  she  remembered  long  after  that 
night  had  passed  away.  Indeed,  trifles  connected 


153  PRUDENCE. 

with  the  scene  recurred  later  to  her  mind  with  pas- 
sionate distinctness :  the  shining-,  wet  pavements  ; 
the  crowd  of  curious,  eager  people  coming  out  of 
the  chapel,  some  of  whom  turned  for  a  glance  at 
the  elegant  young  lady  to  whom  the  American 
minister  was  speaking ;  the  vista  beyond  the  chap- 
el door,  irregularly  lighted,  part  growing  sombre 
from  desertion ;  Jonas's  final  glance  in  her  carriage 
window ;  and  then  some  queer  thought  of  her  own 
hands  lying  on  her  lap  clasped  with  unconsciously 
painful  intensity. 


PRUDENCE.  159 


XV. 

FOR  days  afterward  Mrs.  Van  Leide  deplored 
the  fact  that  one  of  "her"  headaches  prevented 
her  from  seeing  Jonas  Fielding  when  he  called  at 
the  "  George."  Helena's  account  of  him  had  been 
very  meagre,  yet  her  cousin  had  felt  an  ardent 
desire  to  see  him  for  herself.  It  must  have  been 
that,  in  spite  of  chilling  words,  Helena's  testimony 
had  been  to  the  man's  credit ;  for  once  Mrs.  Van 
Leide  had  exclaimed,  "  He  must  be  fascinating." 

"  Fascinating  !"  Helena  had  echoed.  "  Is  he  ? 
He  is,  I  think,  only  intensely  real." 

Jonas  Fielding  knew  very  vaguely  that  Miss  Ar- 
mory was  stopping  with  a  cousin,  and  he  made  his 
way  to  the  old-fashioned  inn,  thinking  entirely  of 
the  younger  lady.  The  court-yard  of  the  "  George  " 
is  very  picturesque  :  there  is  a  paved  centre,  a  wall 
richly  hung  with  ivy,  an  old  well,  and  a  sun-dial, 
from  which  both  shadows  and  gleams  of  light  seem 
to  emanate.  Servants  were  running  here  and  there 
on  eager  duty,  but  Miss  Armory's  name  produced 
instant  attention.  The  American  ladies  were  es- 
tablished in  the  best  rooms  in  the  house.  They 
had  a  maid  and  a  man  servant,  and  were  liberal  in 


160  PRUDENCE. 

their  ideas  about  shillings  and  half-crowns.  Jonas 
had  never  been  more  respectfully  treated  than 
when  he  was  led  through  the  corridors  of  the 
"  George  "  to  a  door-way  through  which  Helena's 
voice  sounded  in  a  faint  "  Come  in."  The  room 
overlooked  the  High  Street  of  the  town  by  means 
of  three  old-fashioned  windows,  with  lattice-framed 
panes  of  glass  and  heavy  oaken  seats.  In  one  of 
them  Miss  Armory  was  seated,  and,  as  she  turned 
her  face  toward  Jonas,  she  said,  simply,  "  I  was 
watching  for  you  ;  you  must  have  come  another 
way." 

"  I  paid  a  visit  or  two  with  the  minister's  wife," 
he  answered,  "  and  I  came  in  by  the  lower  en- 
trance." 

Just  as  in  that  first  visit  to  her  boudoir  in  Lon- 
don, Jonas  took  up  his  place  against  the  chimney- 
piece.  Perhaps  it  was  the  familiar  action,  possibly 
the  sight  of  his  worn  face,  that  made  Helena's 
heart  beat  for  a  moment  so  that  it  was  hard  to 
speak.  She  moved  about  the  room  a  little.  It  was 
cumbrously  but  well  furnished  with  the  oak  and 
carvings  of  two  hundred  years  ago,  the  ornaments 
in  needle-work  and  painting  to  which  time  only 
has  given  a  certain  authority  for  existence.  She 
looked  as  if  she  wanted  to  gather  either  inspira- 
tion or  courage,  and  it  seemed  as  if  she  found  it 
in  Fielding's  simple,  unaverted  gaze.  She  stopped 
in  the  window  nearest  him,  and  said,  passionately, 


PRUDENCE.  161 

"Do  you  hate  me?  Tell  me — oh,  if  in  justice  to 
truth  you  can  —  tell  me  if  I  have  injured  your 
life !" 

Fielding  looked  with  an  eager  light  at  her.  "  No, 
no,  no !"  he  said,  quickly.  "  Oh,  has  this  been  troub- 
ling you  ?  Oh  no,  indeed  !  I  understand  it  all ;  I 
have  thought  it  all  out.  I  know  now  that  I  ought 
better  to  have  understood  many  things.  There  is 
no  one  to  blame.  I  am  simply  paying  for  arro- 
gance, for  blindness,  and  perhaps  it  has  helped  me 
to  a  better  life." 

Helena  sat  still,  regarding  him  with  a  fixed,  gen- 
tle vision. 

"  Do  not  imagine,"  he  continued,  "  that  I  have 
not  spent  hours  and  days  in  bitter  rebellion " — 
the  remembrance  brought  back  a  look  of  torture 
to  his  face — "  only  now  I  know  that  in  resigning 
or  conforming  myself  to  these  circumstances  I 
shall  do  all  that  is  left  to  me  to  do.  I  shall  be 
fulfilling  some  need  within  me,  answering,  per- 
haps, to  some  need  in  others." 

Helena's  lips  opened  to  say, "  And  you  are  hap- 
py?" but  she  hesitated,  and  substituted,  "You  feel 
it  is  God's  will?" 

Jonas  looked  into  space,  with  a  quiet,  thoughtful 
smile. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  I  can  scarcely  say  that,  because 
it  seems  to  me  that  in  certain  ways  our  deeds  are 
our  own.  He  tells  us  that  we  must  be  vigilant 

11 


162  PRUDENCE. 

and  earnest  and  single-minded.  If  by  my  own 
blindness  I  have  misinterpreted  things-,  have  built 
up  a  temple  of  clay  in  my  heart — well,  I  must  not 
take  that  mock-consolation  to  myself,  and  go  about 
feeling  my  inner  martyrdom  the  result  only  of  His 
will.  I  must  say  I  conform  myself  to  the  facts  of 
my  life  because  He  has  permitted  them.  I  do  not 
believe  He  designs  these  miseries  which  come  from 
our  own  stupidity,  idleness,  or  wickedness." 

Helena  listened  intently.  When  he  had  finished 
she  turned  her  gaze  from  the  sunny  street,  smiling 
faintly. 

"  You  are — cruelly  strong,"  she  said. 

Fielding  started  slightly  forward.  "  Oh,  do  not 
say  or  think  that !"  he  exclaimed.  "  I  have  only 
gathered  together  every  force,  trying  not  to  be 
pitifully  weak.  If  I  still  see  life  and  work  ahead 
of  me,  do  you  not  think  I  shall  sometimes  be 
chased  by  the  phantoms  of  the  past  ? — those  in- 
secure, restless  demons  that  are  so  ready  to  seize 
upon  our  depressed  or  obscured  moments,  espe- 
cially if  we  are  forced  to  live  lives  for  other  peo- 
ple. I  must  never  cease  the  patient  toiling  after 
strength.  If  I  were  forced  to  live  among  exag- 
gerations, it  would  be  my  ruin.  My  hope  lies  in 
an  existence  of  simple  meanings,  pure  beliefs." 

He  spoke  with  quick  insistence,  as  if  command- 
ing acceptance  of  his  words. 

"  And  I,"  said  Helena,  slowly — "  I  am,  I  suppose, 


PRUDENCE.  163 

living  among  exaggerations?  What  shall  I  do? 
Do  you  think  I  ought  to  leave  it  all?" 

"  No.  You  and  I  have  different  needs  ;  but  you 
ought  to  understand  things  better ;  you  ought  to 
learn  to  know  gold  from  dross.  You  accept  too 
much  ;  you  " — he  stopped  short,  and  came  over  to 
the  window — "you  let  the  pagan  part  of  life  tri- 
umph, as  it  were,  over  your  better  self  too  often. 
There  is  good  in  that  aestheticism,  as  you  call  it, 
but  you  ought  not  to  seek  relief  from  the  weight 
or  burdens  of  nobler  impulses  in  its  exaggerations. 
How  much  of  it  is  real,  ascertain  that  —  real,  in 
either  feeling,  or  action,  or  good  influence.  As- 
certain that,  and  then  drape  it  in  the  richest,  soft- 
est colors  you  can  find." 

He  returned  to  the  fireplace,  and  met  her  gaze 
again  with  simple  kindliness.  Helena  felt  impelled 
to  say  much  more  to  him.  She  had  the  confusing 
sense  that  he  stood  there  for  one  of  the  permitted 
moments  in  our  lives  when  human  beings  can  reach 
each  other's  very  souls  for  good.  She  wanted  to  ex- 
tract, as  it  were,  some  domineering  principle  of  his 
philosophy.  Might  he  not,  at  least,  leave  her  with 
some  surer  impetus  toward  light  ?  She  felt  tortured 
by  the  sense  that  she  was  losing  her  opportunity. 

"And  you  do  not  think  a  life  like  mine,  for  in- 
stance, need  be  worthless  —  I  mean  according  to 
such  standards  as  yours  ?"  She  spoke  with  a  note 
like  a  sob  in  her  voice. 


164  PRUDENCE. 

"  Oh,"  answered  Fielding,  almost  sadly,  "  your 
life  ought  to  be  perfect — exquisite."  He  smiled 
upon  her.  "  It  has  done  me  good,  and  I  shall 
like  to  think  of  it  —  always.  If  I  have  seemed 
to  think  of  other  things  for  you,  it  has  been  be- 
cause I  know  so  well  the  richness  of  possibility 
in  you,  the  impulses  for  good  you  were  casting 
aside." 

Helena  moved  about  for  a  moment  before  she 
spoke  again ;  then  she  said,  gravely,  "  I  am  haunt- 
ed now  by  just  that  very  thing :  I  feel  that  I  have 
turned  aside." 

He  said  nothing. 

"  It  is  such  a  dreadful  thing,"  she  went  on,  "  to 
be  pursued  by  a  sense  that  you  have  forsaken  your 
earliest  ambitions — that  your  old  ideals  are  mock- 
ing you.  Sometimes  I  try  to  believe  they  were 
nothing  —  the  fantastic  follies  of  an  unformed 
mind ;  but  I  know  better."  She  stopped,  and  add- 
ed, simply,  "  I  think  it  is  you  who  have  made  me 
know  better." 

"But,"  he  persisted,  in  a  very  quiet  voice,  "do 
not  confuse  remorse  or  regret  with  too  much  self- 
analysis ;  the  rules  of  a  Higher  Life  for  any  one 
of  us  are  grandly  simple.  You  see  you  have  been 
trying  to  live  on  theories,  emotions,  harmonies. 
All  these  can  be  beautiful  and  helpful  enough,  if 
we  grant  a  substratum  of  calm,  well-measured,  sim- 
ple beliefs.  Then  the  tendency  toward  paganism 


PRUDENCE.  165 

in  this  intense  idea  of  civilization  cannot  over- 
come us." 

"  And  is  this  philosophy  ?"  she  said,  gravely. 

"  If  you  ask  me,"  he  answered,  "  I  will  say  that 
it  is  mine ;  and  I  think  you  might  be  happier  in 
making  it  yours.  We  must  make  the  best  of  our- 
selves ;  we  are  part  of  a  grand  scheme  of  creation, 
of  life.  Therefore  seek  a  way,  and  follow  it  with 
all  the  simplicity  and  truth  you  can  harbor — " 

Helena's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  him  sadly. 

"  Do  you  think  one  is  apt  to  overestimate  the 
flowers,  the  fragrances,  of  an  intellectual  life  ?"  she 
asked,  half  timidly. 

"  How  can  that  be  ?"  he  exclaimed.  "  But  the 
evil  of  this  aesthetic  movement  is  that  it  tortures 
every  sentiment  either  with  analysis  or  sensuous- 
ness.  The  honest  fibre  of  the  thing  is  lost.  To 
my  way  of  thinking,  one  of  the  weak  outcomes 
of  this  tendency  to-day  is  a  mind  like  your  friend 
Simmonson's." 

She  remained  silent  for  a  moment,  while  Field- 
ing continued  to  stand  looking  down  upon  her 
figure  and  half-averted  face.  He  noticed,  as  she 
stood  against  the  light,  that  the  curve  of  her  cheek 
had  grown  very  thin— its  usual  brilliancy  was  quite 
gone. 

"You  have  not  been  well,"  he  said,  earnestly. 
"  What  is  it  ?  Have  you  been  letting  all  these 
things  prey  upon  you  ?" 


166  PRUDENCE. 

"  I  think  perhaps  I  have,"  Helena  answered. 
"  But  I  am  not  at  all  really  ill.  Do  you  remem- 
ber what  you  once  wrote  to  me " — and  her  smile 
reached  her  eyes  wistfully — "  that  we  must  have 
our  periods  of  mental  and  moral  shock  once  in  so 
often  ?" 

The  past  seemed  to  be  across  such  a  gulf  of  mis- 
ery that  even  this  slight  allusion  to  one  of  its  ex- 
pressive moments  hurt  him. 

She  went  on :  "  Well,  I  am  having  one  of  mine 
now,  I  think ;  and  I  believe  it  will  do  me  good.  I 
shall  remember  all  that  you  have  said  —  all  you 
have  been." 

He  looked  at  her  with  quick  comprehension  and 
gratitude.  After  a  few  moments'  silence,  he  said, 
very  quietly,  "  Have  you  seen — her — since?" 

"Twice,"  answered  Helena.  "But  I  remem- 
bered what  you  asked  of  me — only  I  tried  to  be 
judicious  and  earnest  in  my  advice." 

"  Thank  you."  Fielding  spoke  with  an  almost 
painful  distinctness.  "  I  had  a  note  from  her  this 
morning."  He  touched  the  breast  pocket  of  his 
coat,  hesitated  for  a  barely  perceptible  moment, 
and  then  handed  it  to  Helena. 

She  read  it  slowly,  standing  away  from  him. 
It  was  a  childish,  gentle,  pretty  little  letter,  and 
told  of  her  engagement  to  George  Maybery.  Hel- 
ena folded  it  up  without  comment,  and  Jonas  re- 
placed it. 


PRUDENCE.  167 

"  She  will  be  very  happy,"  he  said  at  last.  "  She 
met  him  a  year  ago  at  Lennox.  I  believe  they  had 
something  like  an  understanding  then — at  least,  I 
have  heard  so.  Mrs.  Crane  has  explained  it  to  me. 
I  want  to  make  something  perfectly  clear  to  your 
mind,  Miss  Armory.  The  more  I  think  of  it,  the 
more  I  see  that  it  has  all  happened  providentially, 
that  she  was  so  admired  and  sought  after  here. 
Marlitt  was  perfectly  right.  I  think,"  Fielding 
added,  with  a  sad  smile — "  I  think  he  must  have 
seen  how  it  would  be ;  at  all  events,  he  had  keen 
perceptions — and  he  loved  us  both." 

Helena  made  no  answer  to  this.  She  had  re- 
sumed her  seat  in  the  window,  and  looking  at  him 
sadly,  she  asked,  "  And  you — what  are  you  going 
to  do?" 

"  What  my  hand  finds  to  do,  I  hope,"  he  said, 
with  an  effort  at  cheerfulness.  "  And  may  I  ask 
you  the  same  question  ?" 

"  I  am  going  just  now  to  the  Pyrenees  with  my 
cousin,"  she  answered.  "  But  that  is  only  half  an 
answer  to  your  question.  My  life  has  not  its  de- 
cisive duties  like  yours.  I  think  I  shall  wait  a  lit- 
tle while  and  see." 

He  looked  at  her  very  earnestly.  "  I  should 
like  sometimes  to  hear  from  you,"  he  said,  a  little 
formally,  "  and  perhaps  some  day  you  will  be  in 
America.  You  said,  if  you  remember,  that  we 
made  a  great  many  beginnings  and  no  endings. 


108  PRUDENCK. 

Yet  I  think  that  it  is  not  quite  true  of  to-day ; 
perhaps  we  shall  do  each  other  future  good.  At 
all  events,  I  say,  God  bless  you  !  when  I  thank  you 
for  all  that  you  have  done." 

He  held  his  hand  out  for  good-bye.  Helena  felt 
a  mist  of  tears  in  her  eyes,  but  she  was  perfectly 
herself  when  she  answered  :  "  Good-bye — no,  auf 
wiedersehen  /"  She  smiled  steadily,  and  spoke 
with  a  grave,  sweet  composure.  "  Do  not  make 
me  feel  too  remorseful  by  thanking  me.  Let  me 
thank  you,  my  friend.  Yes,  you  shall  hear  of  me 
whenever  you  write." 

She  gave  him  her  hand,  and  he  held  it  for  a  mo- 
ment very  reverently. 

It  seemed  to  Helena  that  when  the  mist  faded 
from  her  eyes  he  was  gone. 


PRUDENCE.  169 


XVI. 

PRUDENCE  MARLITT  had  a  quiet  little  wedding 
just  before  Helena  and  Mrs.  Van  Leide  started 
for  the  Pyrenees.  The  two  ladies  came  back  from 

N in  order  to  be  of  use  to  the  young  girl  and 

her  aunt  in  those  exciting  and  important  prepara- 
tions which  for  so  many  women  create  the  fasci- 
nation of  such  an  event.  It  was  odd  to  see  how 
completely  Prudence  forsook  her  brief  period  of 
aesthetic  light.  "  George,"  it  appeared,  had  during 
these  few  weeks  of  his  engagement  expressed  a 
great  many  views.  He  had  definite  ideas  upon 
female  apparel,  and  Prue  rigidly  followed  them, 
so  that,  as  Mrs.  Maybery,  it  might  be  inferred,  Pru- 
dence would  observe  critically  the  very  newest  fash- 
ion. It  jarred  upon  Helena  that  the  young  girl 
made  fun  of  the  dainty  gowns  she  had  worn  at  Mrs. 
Boyce's  conversazione  that  night,  which  now  seem- 
ed a  lifetime  ago  to  Miss  Armory ;  but  then  in 
those  weeks  a  great  many  things  jarred  upon  her. 
She  declared  to  Mrs.  Van  Leide  that  she  believed 
that  in  five  years  no  one  would  live  in  the  same 
house  with  her,  but  in  truth  Margaret  Van  Leide 


170  PRUDENCE. 

had  never  found  her  half  so  lovely  or  so  self-for- 
getful. 

As  a  companion  the  older  woman  had  always 
considered  Helena  perfect,  but  she  confessed  to 
herself  that  a  new  charm  of  some  indefinable  sort 
was  added.  It  was  soft  and  womanly,  and  seemed 
to  have  its  expression  in  the  tender  look  of  her 
eyes,  the  readiness  to  do  little  services  for  Pru- 
dence or  for  any  one  about  her,  the  very  way  in 
which  she  moved  and  spoke  and  laughed.  It  was 
at  that  time  that  Mrs.  Van  Leide  discovered  Hel- 
ena's possible  self,  and  began  to  lament  that  years 
before  she  had  laughed  at  her  large  philanthrop- 
ical  schemes.  Something  had  revealed  to  her 
what  real  action  might  have  been  to  this  woman, 
and  Mrs.  Van  Leide  found  herself  at  moments 
shrinking  from  Helena's  mutely  questioning  gaze. 
For  how  much  inaction  was  she  accountable,  since 
she  knew  she  had  contributed  at  all  times  to  the 
lotus-eating  element  which  she  had  found  so  de- 
lightful in  Helena's  richly  colored  life  and  nature  ? 

There  could  not  be  said  to  have  been  any  per- 
ceptible jar  between  the  two.  I  think  they  felt 
drawn  even  more  closely  to  each  other  by  this 
sense  that  in  the  past  some  things  might  have 
been  more  wisely  or  less  arrogantly  ordered  ;  and 
each  was  too  conscious  of  the  other's  delicacy  of 
feeling  to  formulate  what  must,  if  spoken,  contain 
a  rebuke.  So  the  time  went  on,  possessing  a  heal- 


'•'1 


'IT  WAS  ODD  TO  SEE  HOW  COMPLETELY  PRUDENCE  FORSOOK  HER 
BRIEF   PERIOD   OF   AESTHETIC   LIGHT." 


PRUDENCE.  173 

ing  influence  where  people  are  in  soul  generously 
sympathetic ;  and  Mrs.  Van  Leide  knew,  in  spite 
of  her  misgivings,  that  she  was  dearer  to  her  friend 
and  cousin  than  she  had  ever  been  before,  al- 
though the  younger  woman  would  never  again 
consider  her  decisions  or  opinions  as  infallible. 
We  measure  a  great  many  things  accurately 
when  we  discover  our  own  weaknesses  for  the 
first  time. 

The  days  rushed  by  to  every  one  concerned  in 
preparing  for  the  wedding,  and  led  at  last  to  the 
date  when  Mr.  Maybery  conducted  his  bride  out 
of  St.  George's  and  back  to  Cornwall  Gardens, 
where  Mrs.  Boyce  had  insisted  the  wedding  break- 
fast should  be.  Everything  went  off  as  smoothly 
and"  comfortably  as  possible.  Mrs.  Crane  was  a 
trifle  less  eager  than  usual,  being  overawed,  it  has 
always  been  supposed,  by  a  certain  magnificence 
in  Margaret  Van  Leide's  manner,  and  the  fact  that 
Mr.  Maybery  was  a  man  who  took  all  his  wishes 
and  demands  so  cheerfully  for  granted.  That  Bar- 
ley Simmonson  had  gone  to  Algiers  was  a  source 
of  content  to  the  bride.  Indeed,  everything  seem- 
ed to  please  her.  Not  a  shadow  once  rested  on 
her  exquisite  face,  and  it  may  be  inferred  that 
none  ever  will. 

It  was  three  months  later  that,  in  the  Pyrenees, 
at  Saint-Jean-de-Luz,one  day  Miss  Armory  sudden- 
ly encountered  Barley  Simmonson  and  his  friend 


174:  PRUDENCE. 

Field  Mowbray,  Jun.  The  two  young  men  were 
sketching  in  the  old  church,  but  turned  delighted 
faces  upon  Miss  Armory  and  her  cousin.  The  sol- 
emn architecture  and  dusky  colors  about  them  had 
evidently  palled  upon  our  friend  Barley,  who  had 
been  making  very  poor  attempts  at  architectural 
drawing,  and  became  easily  social  in  his  manner 
before  they  had  left  the  church  door.  It  rather 
surprised  Helena  that,  after  exchanging  a  few  com- 
monplaces, Mr.  Simmonson  spoke  of  Prudence,  for 
three  months  might  obliterate  the  memories  of 
a  lifetime  with  this  young  man.  He  walked  with 
Helena  into  the  square,  following  Mrs.  Van  Leide 
and  young  Mowbray,  growing  more  like  himself  as 
they  stood  in  the  sunshine  and  bloom  of  that  sad 
old  city.  He  seemed  interested  in  hearing  certain 
details  of  little  Prue's  engagement  and  wedding. 
Helena  gave  them  coldly,  in  chroniclers'  fashion, 
thinking,  indeed,  of  other  things  as  she  stood  look- 
ing at  the  sea  stretched  before  them  —  certainly 
a  finer,  handsomer  creature,  Barley  was  thinking, 
than  he  remembered  her  in  London  ;  but  later 
the  conversation  was  more  vivid  and  more  inter- 
esting. 

Mrs.  Van  Leide  and  Helena  were,  for  the  time, 
occupying  the  villa  of  a  friend  at  Biarritz,  and  in 
the  course  of  the  same  evening  the  young  men  re- 
appeared. The  night  was  brilliantly  fine,  and  they 
all  strolled  into  the  garden  overlooking  the  stretch 


PRUDENCE.  175 

of  tempestuous,  moonlit  water.  Mr.  Simmonson 
again  reverted  to  Prudence.  Sitting  upon  one  of 
the  marble  terraces,  he  told  all  the  party  the  story 
of  his  disappointed  love.  He  detailed  it  as  though 
he  related  the  pathetic  history  of  some  heart-bro- 
ken friend.  The  rich  fragrances  of  the  garden, 
possibly  the  grace  of  Miss  Armory's  figure  as  it 
was  outlined  in  the  warm,  soft  air,  seemed  to  in- 
spire him ;  and,  sitting  above  a  bank  of  roses,  his 
graceful  beauty  was,  if  possible,  more  Greek  than 
ever.  Helena  remarked  that  he  only  needed  a 
mandolin  to  make  it  perfect.  It  all  sounded  very 
pretty  and  like  a  poem.  Mrs.  Van  Leide  was  quite 
fascinated. 

"And  was  this  girl  really  such  a  marvel?"  she 
inquired. 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  she  was,"  said  Helena, 
turning  round  quickly.  "  We  intended  her  to  be 
a  great  success ;  and  she  was  one,  after  a  fashion, 
only  she  never  once  saw  the  real  meaning  of  any- 
thing in  English  society.  Gradually,  I  believe,  the 
aesthetes  found  this  out.  If  we  taught  her  a  role, 
she  was  happy  to  play  it ;  but  it  was  always  a  role. 
Just  as  Mr.  Benison  said,  she  was  only  '  a  little  dar- 
ling.' " 

Barley  Simmonson  listened,  with  his  eyes  upon 
the  sea.  He  had  been  moved  by  his  own  recital. 
He  thoroughly  enjoyed  its  effect  upon  himself. 
There  was  silence,  except  for  the  movement  of 


176  PRUDENCE. 

the  waves  upon  the  beach,  until  he  said,  dreamily, 
"  She  was  so  rare — so  rare !" 

Helena  had  carried  a  letter  from  Jonas  Fielding 
all  the  evening,  unopened,  in  her  pocket.  When 
they  had  bidden  the  young  men  good-night,  and 
were  lingering  in  the  drawing-room,  whose  win- 
dows opened  to  the  fragrances  of  spring  flowers, 
Mrs.  Van  Leide  said,  suddenly,  "  What  did  your 
friend  Mr.  Fielding  write  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  yet,"  said  Helena,  smiling.  "  Bar- 
ley Simmonson  put  me  out  of  tune." 

Helena  almost  involuntarily  touched  the  letter 
with  her  fingers,  while  Mrs.  Van  Leide  said,  "  That 
young  man  is  uncommonly  handsome.  Isn't  he 
Lord  Bairham's  heir  ?"  Then,  seeing  that  Miss 
Armory  continued  silently  preoccupied,  she  add- 
ed :  "  Do  you  know,  Helena,  I  am  afraid  you  mean 
to  drift  away  from  the  golden  chances  of  youth? 
Now,  listen  to  me.  You  are  young  and  handsome, 
and  well  enough  off,  and  I'd  rather  have  you  with 
me  day  and  night  than  any  being  on  earth ;  yet  I 
feel  as  if  I,  perhaps,  had  done  more  to  talk  you  out 
of — well,  any  career — and  you  ought  to  have  mar- 
ried. You  ought  to  marry  now.  You  —  are  you 
listening,  dearest  ?" 

Mrs.  Van  Leide  was  sitting  by  the  piano  at  the 
lower  end  of  the  pretty  room,  with  its  shining  floor 
and  luxury  of  flowers  and  color.  While  she  had 
been  talking  Helena  had  remained  motionless  in 


PRUDENCE.  177 

the  open  window,  her  fingers  idly  touching  the 
roses  that  hung  in  languid  clusters  at  her  side  ; 
but  now  she  turned  and  crossed  the  room,  slowly 
kneeling  down  at  her  cousin's  side,  and  in  her  face, 
lifted  earnestly  to  the  older  woman's,  was  some- 
thing stronger  than  anything  she  could  have  said. 

"  Margaret,  dear,"  the  girl  said,  very  gently,  "you 
will  not  think  me  hard,  or  that  I  am  repressing  con- 
fidences with  you  of  all  people  on  earth ;  but  you 
must  not  grieve  in  that  way  over  me  any  more — 
never  ask  me  to  marry  any  one  again.  Perhaps 
some  day,  when  we  are  old  women,  in  caps  and 
spectacles,  and  I've  a  reputation  for  something 
very  useful " — they  smiled  wistfully  at  each  other 
— "  I'll  tell  you  my  reasons  why,  but  not  now, 
not  just  now :  only  never  think  of  it  again." 

"  My  child,  is  it  to  be  like  this?" 

Helena,  holding  her  friend's  hands  closely,  nod- 
ded and  smiled,  with  tears  lying  under  her  dark 
lashes. 

"  I  think — yes,  I  think  it  must  be."  But  of  this, 
though  she  says  nothing,  Mrs.  Van  Leide  is  not 
entirely  sure. 


THE  END. 


SOME  POPULAR  NOVELS 

Published  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  New  York. 

The  XoveJs  in  this  list  which  are  not  otherwise  designated  are  in  Octavo,  pam- 
phlet form,  and  may  be  obtained  in  ha' f  -  binding  [leather  backs  and  paste- 
board sides],  suitable  for  Public  and  Circulating  Libraries,  at  25  cents,  net, 
per  volume,  in  addition  to  the  price  of  the  respective  u-orks  as  stated  below. 
The  Duodecimo  Novels  are  bound  in  Cloth,  unless  otherwise  specified. 

For  a  FULL  LIST  op  NOVELS  published  by  HAKPER  &  BKOTIIERS.  nee  HAHVER'S 
NEW  AND  UKVIBKD  CATALOGUE,  which  will  be  sent  by  mail,  postage  pre- 
paid, to  any  address  in  the  United  States,  on  receipt  of  nine  cents 


PRICK 

BLACK'S  A  Daughter  of  Hetli $     35 

12mo  1  25 

A  Princess  of  Thule 50 

12mo  1  25 

Green  Pastures  and  Piccadilly 50 

12mo  1  25 

In  Silk  Attire 35 

12mo  1  25 

Kil  ineny 35 

12mo  1  25 

Love  or  Marriage  ? 30 

Macleoil  of  Dare.     Illustrated 12mo  1  25 

Illustrated.     8vo       60 
4to,  Paper      15 

Madcap  Violet 50 

12mo  1  25 

Sunrise 12mo  1  25 

4to,  Paper       15 

That  Beautiful  Wretch.      Illustrated 12mo  1  25 

Illustrated.     4to,  Paper       20 

The  Maid  of  Killeena,  and  Other  Stories 40 

The  Monarch  of  Mincing-Lane.     Illustrated 50 

The  Strange  Adventures  of  a  Phaeton 50 

12mo  1  25 

Three  Feathers.     Illustrated 1  25 

White  Wings.     Illustrated 12mo  1  25 

4to,  Paper       20 

BLACKMORE'S  Alice  Lorraine 50 

Clara  Vaughan 4to,  Paper       15 

Cradock  Nowell. 60 

Cripps,  the  Carrier 50 

Erema 50 

Lorna  Doone 60 

Mary  Anerley 16mo,  Cloth  1  00 

4to,  Paper      15 
The  Maid  of  Sker. . .  50 


Harper  &  Brothers'  Popular  Novels. 


PRICK 

BENEDICT'S  John  Worthington's  Name $    76 

Cloth  1  25 
Miss  Dorothy's  Charge 75 

Cloth  1  25 
Miss  Van  Kortland 60 

Cloth  1  10 

Mr.  Vaughan's  Heir 75 

My  Daughter  Elinor 80 

Cloth  1  30 
St.  Simon's  Niece 60 

Cloth  1  10 

BULWER'S  Alice 35 

A  Strange  Story.  Illustrated..... , 50 

12mo  1  25 

Devereux 40 

Ernest  Maltravers 35 

Eugene  Aram 35 

Godolphin 35 

12mo  1  50 

Harold,  the  Last  of  the  Saxon  Kings 60 

Kenehn  Chillingly 50 

12mo  1  25 
Leila 25 

12mo  1  00 

Lucretia , 40 

My  Novel 75 

2  vols.  12mo  2  50 

Night  and  Morning 50 

Paul  Clifford 40 

Pausanias  the  Spartan 25 

12mo  75 

Pelham 40 

Rienzi 40 

The  Caxtons 50 

12mo  1  25 
The  Coming  Race 12mo,  Paper  50 

Cloth  1  00 

The  Disowned 50 

The  Last  Days  of  Pompeii 25 

4to,  Paper  15 

The  Last  of  the  Barons 50 

The  Parisians.  Illustrated ; 60 

12mo  1  50 

The  Pilgrims  of  the  Rhine , 20 

What  will  He  do  with  it? 75 

Cloth  1  25 
Zanoni...,  35 


Harper  &  Brothers'  Popular  Novels. 


PRICK 

BULWER'S  (Robert— "Owen  Meredith")  The  Ring  of  Amasis 

12mo$sl  50 

BRADDON'S  (Miss)  An  Open  Verdict 35 

A  Strange  World 40 

Asphodel 4to,  Paper  15 

Aurora  Floyd 40 

Barbara ;  or,  Splendid  Misery 4to,  Paper  15 

Birds  of  Prey.     Illustrated 50 

Bound  to  John  Company.     Illustrated 50 

Charlotte's  Inheritance 35 

Dead  Men's  Shoes 40 

Dead  Sea  Fruit.     Illustrated 50 

Eleanor's  Victory 60 

Fenton's  Quest.     Illustrated 50 

Hostages  to  Fortune.     Illustrated 50 

John  Marchmont's  Legacy 50 

Joshua  Haggard's  Daughter.     Illustrated 50 

Just  as  I  Am 4to,  Paper  15 

Lost  for  Love.      Illustrated 50 

Mistletoe  Bough,  1878.    Edited  by  M.  E.  Braddon.    4to,  Paper  15 

Mistletoe  Bough,  1879.    Edited  by  M.  E.  Braddon.    4to,  Paper  10 

Publicans  and  Sinners 50 

Strangers  and  Pilgrims.     Illustrated 50 

Taken  at  the  Flood 50 

The  Cloven  Foot 4to,  Paper  15 

The  Lovels  of  Arden.     Illustrated 50 

To  the  Bitter  End.     Illustrated 50 

Vixen 4to,  Paper  15 

Weavers  and  Weft 25 

BRONTE'S  (Charlotte)  Jane  Eyre 40 

Illustrated.     12mo  1  00 

4to,  Paper  15 

Shirley 50 

Illustrated.     12mo  1  00 

The  Professor.     Illustrated 12ino  1  00 

Villette ,  50 

Illustrated.     12ino  1  00 

(Anna)  The  Tenant  of  Wildfell  Hall.     Illustrated 12mo  1  00 

(Emilv)  Wuthering  Heights.     Illustrated 12mo  1  00 

CRAIK'S  (Miss  G.M.)  Dorcas 4to,  Paper  15 

Mildred 30 

Anne  Warwick 25 

Hard  to  Bear 30 

Sydney 4to,  Paper  15 

Sylvia's  Choice 30 

Two  Women 4to,  Paper  15 

COLLINS' S  (Mortimer)  The  Vivian  Romance 35 


Harper  &  Brothers'  Popular  Novels. 


COLLINS'S  Antonina $  40 

Arnmclale.     I  llustrated 60 

Man  and  Wife.     Illustrated 60 

4to,  Paper  15 

My  Lady's  Money 32mo,  Paper  25 

No  Name.     Illustrated 60 

Percy  and  the  Prophet 32mo,  Paper  20 

Poor  Miss  Finch.     Illustrated 60 

The  Law  and  the  Lady.     Illustrated 50 

The  Moonstone.     Illustrated 60 

The  New  Magdalen 30 

The  Two  Destinies.     Illustrated 35 

The  Woman  in  White.     Illustrated 60 

COLLIXS'S  Illustrated  Library  Edition 12mo,  per  vol.  1  25 

After  Dark,  and  Other  Stories. — Antonina.  —  Armadale. — Ba- 
sil.— Hide-and-Seek. — Man  and  Wife. — My  Miscellanies. — 
No  Name. — Poor  Miss  Finch. — The  Dead  Secret. — The  Law 
and  the  Lady. — The  Moonstone. — The  New  Magdalen. — 
The  Queen  of  Hearts. — The  Two  Destinies. — The  Woman 
in  Whi  e. 
DICKENS'S  NOVELS.  Illustrated. 


A  Tale  of  Two  Cities  50 

Nicholas  Nickleby  1  00 

Cloth  1  00 
Barnaby  Rudge  1  00 

Cloth  1  50 
Oliver  Twist  50 

Cloth  1  50 
Bleak  House  100 

Cloth  1  00 
Our  Mutual  Friend                   1  00 

Cloth  1  50 
Christmas  Stories  1  00 

Cloth  1  50 
Pickwick  Papers.                        1  00 

Cloth  1  50 
David  Copperfield.  .         .  1  00 

Cloth  1  50 
4to  Paper      20 

Cloth  1  50 
Dombey  and  Son  .         .  .  1  00 

Pictures  from   Italy,  Sketch- 

Cloth  1  50 

Notes  1  00 

Great  Expectations  1  00 
Cloth  1  50 

Cloth  1  50 
The  Old  Curiosity  Shop  75 

Little  Dorrit  1  00 

Cloth  1  25 

Cloth  1  50 
Martin  Chuzzlewit  1  00 
Cloth  1  50 

The  Uncommercial  Traveller, 
Hard    Times,  and    Edwin 
Drood  1  00 

Cloih  1  50 

Harper's  Household  Dickens,  16  vols.,  Cloth,  in  box,  $22  00. 
The  same  in  8  vols.,  Cloth,  $20  00 ;  Imitation  Half  Mo- 
rocco, $22  00 ;  Half  Calf,  $40  00. 

HUGO'S  Ninety-Three.     Illustrated 25 

12mo  1  75 

The  Toilers  of  the  Sea 50 

Illustrated.     Cloth  1  50 


Harper  &  Brothers'  Popular  Novels. 


PUIOK 

DE  MILLE'S  Cord  and  Creese.     Illustrated $    60 

Cloth  1  10 

The  American  Baron.     Illustrated 50 

Cloth  1  00 

The  Cryptogram.     Illustrated 75 

Cloth  1  25 

The  Dodge  Club.     Illustrated GO 

Cloth  1  10 

The  Living  Link.     Illustrated 60 

Cloth  1  10 
ELIOT'S  (George)  Novels : 

Adam  Bede.     Illustrated 12mo  1  25 

Amos  Barton 32mo,  Paper      20 

Brother  Jacob.—  The  Lifted  Veil 32mo,  Paper      20 

Daniel  Deronda ,       50 

2  vols.,  12mo  2  50 

Felix  Holt,  the  Radical 50 

Illustrated.     12mo  1  25 

Janet's  Repentance 32mo,  Paper      20 

Middlemarch 75 

Cloth  1  26 
2  vols.,  12mo  2  50 

Mr.  Gilfil's  Love  Story 32mo,  Paper      20 

Romola.     Illustrated 50 

12mo  1  25 

Scenes  of  Clerical  Life 50 

Scenes  of  Clerical  Life  and  Silas  Marner.     1  vol.     Ill'd.     12mo  1  25 

Silas  Marner 12mo      75 

The  Mill  on  the  Floss 50 

Illustrated.     12mo  1  25 

GASKELL'S  (Mrs.)  A  Dark  Night's  Work 25 

Cousin  Phillis 20 

Cranford 16mo  1  25 

Mnry  Barton 40 

Moorland  Cottage 18mo      75 

My  Lady  Ludlow 20 

North  and  South 40 

Right  at  Last,  &c 12mo  1  50 

Sylvia's  Lovers 40 

Wives  and  Daughters.     Illustrated 60 

Cloth  1  10 

GOLDSMITH'S  Vicar  of  Wakefield 18mo,Cloth      50 

32mo,  Paper      25 

JAMES'S  (Henry,  Jun.)  Daisy  Miller 32mo,  Paper       20 

An  International  Episode 32mo,  Paper       20 

Diary  of  a  Man  of  Fifty 32mo,  Paper      25 

Washington  Square.     Illustrated 16mo,  Cloth  1  25 


6  Harper  &  Brothers'  Popular  NoveLs. 

PEICE 

HAT'S  (Mary  Cecil)  A  Dark  Inheritance 32mo,  Paper$  15 

A  Shadow  on  the  Threshold 32mo,  Paper  20 

Among  the  Ruins,  and  Other  Stories 4to,  Papsr  15 

At  the  Seaside,  and  Other  Stories 4to,  Paper  15 

Back  to  the  Old  Home 32mo,  Paper  20 

For  Her  Dear  Sake 4to,  Paper  15 

Hidden  Perils 25 

Into  the  Shade,  and  Other  Stories 4to,  Paper  15 

Lady  Carmichael's  Will 15 

Missing 32mo,  Paper  20 

My  First  Offer,  and  Other  Stories 4to,  Paper  15 

Nora's  Love  Test 25 

Old  Myddelton's  Money 25 

Reaping  the  Whirlwind 32mo,  Paper  20 

The  Arundel  Motto 25 

The  Sorrow  of  a  Secret 32mo,  Paper  16 

The  Squire's  Legacy 25 

Under  Life's  Key,  and  Other  Stories 4to,  Paper  15 

Victor  and  Vanquished 25 

HELEN  Troy 12mo  1  00 

LAWRENCE'S  Anteros ,  40 

Brake^peare 40 

Breaking  a  Butterfly 35 

Guy  Livingstone 12mo  1  50 

4to,  Paper  10 

Hagarem- 35 

Maurice  Dering 25 

Sans  Merci 35 

Sword  and  Gown 20 

LEVER'S  A  Day's  Ride 40 

Barriiigton 40 

Gerald  Fitzgerald 40 

Lord  Kilgobbin.  Illustrated 50 

Luttrell  of  Arran 60 

Maurice  Tiernay 50 

One  of  Them...". 50 

Roland  Cashel.  Illustrated 75 

Sir  Brook  Fosbr.  oke 50 

Sir  Jasper  Carew 50 

That  Boy  of  Norcott's.  Illu-trated 25 

The  Bramleighs  of  Bishop's  Folly 50 

The  Daltons '. 75 

The  Dodd  Family  Abroad 60 

The  Fortunes  of  Glencore 50 

The  Martins  of  Cro'  Martin 60 

Tony  Butler 60 


Harper  &  Brother^  Popular  Novels.  *1 

PBIOE 

MCCARTHY'S  Comet  of  a  Season 4to,  Paper8    20 

Donna  Quixote 4to,  Paper       15 

My  Enemy's  Daughter.     Illustrated 50 

The  Commander's  Statue 32mo,  Paper       15 

The  Waterdale  Neighbors , 35 

MACDONALD'S  Alec  Forbes 50 

Annals  of  a  Quiet  Neighborhood 12mo  1  25 

Guild  Court 40 

Warlock  o'  Glenwarlock 4to,  Paper       20 

MULOCK'S  (Miss)  A  Brave  Lady.     Illustrated 60 

12mo  1  25 
A  French  Country  Family.     Translated.     Illustrated.  ...12mo  1  50 

Agatha's  Husband 35 

Illustrated.     12mo  1  25 

A  Hero,&c 12mo  1  25 

A  Life  for  a  Life 40 

12mo  1  25 

A  Noble  Life 12mo  1  25 

Avillion,  and  Other  Tales 60 

Christian's  Mistake 12mo  1  25 

Hannah.      Illustrated 35 

12mo  1  25 

Head  of  the  Family 50 

Illustrated.     12mo  1  26 

His  Little  Mother 12mo  1  25 

4to,  Paper      10 

John  Halifax,  Gentleman 50 

Illustrated.     12mo  1  25 
4to,  Paper      15 

Mistress  and  Maid 30 

12mo  1  25 

Motherless.     Translated.     Illustrated 12mo  1  50 

My  Mother  and  I.     Illustrated 40 

12mo  1  25 

Nothing  New 30 

Ogilvies 35 

Illustrated.     12mo  1  25 

Olive 35 

Illustrated.     12mo  1  25 

The  Laurel  Bush.     Illustrated 25 

12mo  1  25 

The  Woman's  Kingdom.     Illustrated 60 

12mo  1  25 

Two  Marriages 12mc  1  25 

Unkind  Word,  and  Other  Stories 12mo  1  25 

Young  Mrs.  Jardine 12mo  1  25 

4to,  Paper      10 


8  Harper  &  Brothers'  Popular  Novels. 

TRICK 

MY  Heart's  in  the  Highlands 4to,  Paper  $  10 

NICHOLS'S  The  Sanctuary.     Illustrated 12mo  1  50 

NOEL'S  (Lady)  Owen  Gwynne's  Great  Work 30 

From  Generation  to  Generation 4lo,  Paper  15 

NORRIS'S  Heaps  of  Money 25 

NORTON'S  (Mrs.)  Stuart  o*f  Dunleath 35 

NOTLEY'S  (F.  E.  M.)  Love's  Crosses 4to.  Paper  15 

Time  Shall  Try 4to.  Paper  15 

OLIPHANT'S  (Mrs.)  Agnes 50 

A  Son  of  the  Soil 50 

Athelings 50 

Brownlows 50 

Carita 50 

Chronicles  of  Carlingford 60 

Days  of  My  Life 12mo  1  50 

For  Love  and  Life 50 

Harry  Joscelvn 4to,  Paper  20 

He  That  Will  Not  when  Hu  May 4to,  Paper  15 

Innocent.     Illustrated 50 

John:    a  Love  Story 25 

Katie  Stewart * 20 

Lucy  Crofton 12mo  1  50 

Madonna  Mary 50 

Miss  Marjoribanks 50 

Mrs.  Arthur 40 

Omhra 50 

Phoebe,  Junior 35 

Squire  Arden 50 

The  Curate  in  Charge 20 

The  Fugitives 4 to,  Paper  10 

The  Greatest  Heiress  in  England 4to,  Paper  15 

The  House  on  the  Moor 12mo  1  50 

The  Laird  of  Norlaw 12mo  1  50 

The  Last  of  the  Mortimers 12mo  1  50 

The  Minister's  Wife 50 

The  Perpetual  Curate 50 

Cloth  1  00 

The  Primrose  Path 50 

The  Quiet  Heart 20 

The  Story  of  Valentine  and  his  Brother 50 

Within  the  Precincts 4to,  Paper  15 

Young  Musgrave 40 

ORRED'S  (Meta)  A  Long  Time  Ago 25 

Honor's  Worth 4to,  P;iper  15 

PATRICK'S  (Mary)  Christine  Brownlee's  Ordeal 4to,  Paper  15 

Marjorie  Brace's  Lovers 2"> 

Mr.  Leslie  of  Underwood 4to,  Paper  15 


Harper  &  Br  other  $  Popular  Novels.  9 

PKIOE 

PAYN'S  (Jas.)  A  Beggar  on  Horseback $  35 

A  Confidential  Agent 4to,  Paper  15 

A  Grape  from  a  Thorn 4to,  Papi;r  20 

A  Woman's  Vengeance 35 

At  Her  Mercy 30 

Bred  in  the  Bone 40 

By  Proxy 35 

Carlyon's  Year 25 

Cecil's  Tryst 30 

Found  De.-id 25 

From  Exile 4to,  Paper  15 

Gwendoline's  Harvest 25 

Halves 30 

High  Spirits 4to,  Paper  15 

Less  Black  than  "We're  Painted 35 

Murphy's  Master 20 

One  of  the  Family 25 

The  Best  of  Husbands 25 

Under  One  Roof 4to,  Paper  15 

Walter's  Word 50 

What  He  Cost  Her 40 

Won— Not  Wooed 35 

READE'S  Novels  :  Household  Edition.     Ill'd 12mo.  per  vol.  1  00 


A  Simpleton  and  The  Wander- 
ing Heir. 

A  Terrible  Temptation. 
A  Woman-Hater. 
Foul  Play. 
Griffith  Gaunt. 
Hard  Cash. 


It  is  Never  Too  Late  to  Mend. 
Love  me  Little,  Love  me  Long. 
Peg  Woffington,  Christie  Johnstone, 

&c. 

Put  Yourself  in  His  Place. 
The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth. 
White  Lies. 


READE'S  (Charles)  A  Hero  and  a  Martyr 15 

A  Simpleton 35 

A  Terrible  Temptation.  Illustrated 40 

A  Woman-Hater.  Illustrated 60 

12mo  1  00 

Foul  Play 35 

Griffith  Gaunt.  Illustrated 40 

Hard  Cash.  Illustrated 50 

It  is  Never  Too  Late  to  Mend 50 

Love  Me  Little,  Love  Me  Long 35 

Peg  Woffington,  &c 50 

Put  Yourself  in  His  Place.  Illustrated 50 

The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth 50 

The  Jilt 32mo,  Paper  20 

The  Wandering  Heir.  Illustrated 25 

\\  iiite  Lies 40 

SCOTT'S  (Sir  Walter)  Novels.     See  Waverley  Novels. 


10  Harper  <&  Brothers'  Popular  Novels. 

PRIOR 

RICE  &  BBS  ANT'S  By  Celia's  Arbor.     Illustrated 8vo,  Paper$  50 

Shepherds  All  and  Maidens  Fair 32ino.  Paper  25 

Sweet  Nelly,  My  Heart's  Delight 4to,  Paper  10 

The  Chaplain  of  the  Fleet 4to,  Paper  20 

The  Golden  Butterfly 40 

'Twas  in  Trafalgar's  Bay 32mo,  Paper  20 

When  the  Ship  Comes  Home 32mo,  Paper  25 

ROBINSON'S  (F.  W.)  A  Bridge  of  Glass 30 

A  Girl's  Romance,  and  Other  Stories 30 

As  Long  as  She  Lived 50 

Carry's  Confession 50 

Christie's  Faith 12mo  1  75 

Coward  Conscience 4to,  Paper  15 

For  Her  Sake.     Illustrated 60 

Her  Face  was  Her  Fortune 40 

Little  Kate  Kirby.     Illustrated 50 

M;ittie :  a  Stray 40 

No  Man's  Friend 50 

Othello  the  Second 32mo,  Paper  20 

Poor  Humanity 50 

Poor  Zeph!. ..." 32mo,  Paper  20 

Romance  on  Four  Wheels 15 

Second-Cousin  Sarah.     Illustrated 50 

Stern  Necessity 40 

The  Barmaid  at  Battleton 32mo,  Paper  15 

The  Black  Speck 32mo,  Paper  10 

The  Romance  of  a  Back  Street 32mo,  Paper  15 

True  to  Herself. 50 

THACKERAY'S  (W.  M.)  Denis  Duval.     Illustrated 25 

Henry  Esmond  and  Lovel  the  Widower.     12  Illustrations 60 

Henry  Esmond 50 

4to,  Paper  15 

Lovel  the  Widower 20 

Pendennis.      179  Illustrations ." 75 

The  Adventures  of  Philip.     64  Illustrations 60 

The  Great  Hoggarty  Diamond 20 

The  Newcomes.     162  Illustrations 90 

The  Virginians.      150  Illustrations 90 

Vanity  Fair.    32  Illustrations 80 

THACKERAY'S  Works:  Household  Edition 12mo,  per  vol.  1  25 

Novels:  Vanity  Fair.  —  Pendennis.  —  The  Newcomes.  —  The 

Virginians. — Philip. — Esmond,  and  Lovel  the  Widower.     6 

vols.     Illustrated. 
Miscellaneous  :  Barry  Lyndon,  Hoggarty  Diamond,  &c. — Paris 

and  Irish  Sketch  Books,  &c.—  Book  of  Snobs,  Sketches,  &c. — 

Four  Georges,  English  Humorists,  Roundabout  Papers,  &c. 

— Catharine,  &c.     5  vols.     Illustrated. 


Harper  <t  Brothers'  Popular  Novels.  11 


THACKERAY'S  (Miss)  Bluebeard's  Keys  ..............................  $  35 

Da  Capo  ...................................................  32mo,  Paper  20 

•Miscellaneous  Works  ..................................................  90 

Miss  Angel.     Illustrated  .............................................  50 

Miss  Williamson's  Divagations  .........................  4to,  Paper  15 

Old  Kensington.      Illustrated  ............  .  ...............  60 

Village  on  the  Cliff.  Illustrated  ........................  25 

TABOR'S  (Eliza)  Eglantine  ...............................................  40 

Hope  Meredith  ..........................................................  35 

Jeanie's  Quiet  Life  ..............................................  •  —  SO 

Little  Miss  Primrose  .....................................  4to,  Paper  15 

Meta's  Faith  ..............................................  35 

St.  Olave's  ..............................................................  40 

The  Blue  Ribbon  .......................................................  40 

The  Last  of  Her  Line  ......................  '  ...............  4to,  Paper  15 

TOM  Brown's  School  Days.     By  An  Old  Boy.     Illustrated  .........  40 

TOM  Brown  at  Oxford."  Illustrated  .........  "  ..........................  CO 

The  two  in  one  volume,  Cloth  1  50 

TROLLOPE'S  (Anthony)  An  Eye  for  an  Eye  ..........  4to,  Paper  10 

Ayala's  Angel  ...............  ."  .............  "  ................  4to,  Paper  20 

Brown,  Jones,  and  Robinson  .......................................  35 

Can  You  Forgive  Her  ?     Illustrated  ...............................  80 

Castle  Richmond  .................................................  T2tno  1  50 

Cousin  Henry  ..................................  4to,  Paper  10 

Doctor  Thome  ....................................................  12mo  1  50 

Doctor  Worth's  School  ...................................  4to,  Paper  15 

Framley  Parsonage  ........................................  4to,  Paper  16 

Harrv  Heathcote  of  Gangoil.     Illustrated  .........................  20 

He  Knew  He  was  Right.     Illustrated  .............................  80 

Cloth  1  30 

Is  He  Popenjoy?  ...........................................  4to,  Paper  15 

John  Caldigate".  ..........................................  4to,  Paper  15 

Lady  Anna  .............................................................  30 

Miss  Mackenzie  .........................................................  «° 

Orlev  Farm.      Illustrated  .............................................  80 

Cloth  1  30 

Phineas  Finn.     Illustrated  .................................  75 

Cloth  1  25 

Phineas  Redux.     Illustrated  .........................................  75 

Cloth  1  25 

Rachel  Ray  ..............................................................      35 

Ralph  the  Heir.      Illustrated  .......................................      75 

Cloth  1  25 


Sir  Harry  Hotspur  of  Humblethwaite.     Illustrated 
The  American  Senator 
The  Belton  Estate 


1  "2  Harper  &  Brothers'  Popular  Novels. 

TROLLOPE'S  (Anthony)  The  Bertrams 12mo$r"50 

4to,  Paper       15 

The  Claverings.     Illustrated 50 

Cloth  1  00 

The  Duke's  Children 4to,  Paper      20 

The  Eustace  Diamonds.     Illustrated 80 

Cloth  1  30 

The  Golden  Lion  of  Granpere.     Illustrated 40 

Cloth      90 

Th»  Lady  of  Lannay 32mo,  Paper   20 

The  Last  Chronicle  of  Barset.     Illustrated 90 

Cloth  1  40 

The  Prime  Minister 60 

The  Small  House  at  Allington.     Illustrated 75 

Cloth  1  25 

The  Three  Clerks 12mo  1  50 

The  Vicar  of  Bullhampton.     Illustrated 80 

Cloth  1  30 

The  Warden  and  Barchester  Towers.     In  one  volume 60 

The  Way  we  Live  Now.     Illustrated 90 

Cloth  1  40 

Thompson  Hall.     Illustrated 32mo,  Paper       20 

TWO  Tales  of  Married  Life 30 

WALLACE'S  (Lew)  Ben-Hur 16mo,  Cloth  1  50 

WAVERLEY  NOVELS: 

THISTLE  EDITION-;  48  Vols.,  Green  Cloth,  with  2000  Illus- 
trations, $1  00  per  vol. ;  Half  Morocco,  Gilt  Tops,  f  1  50  per 
vol. ;  Half  Morocco,  Extra,  $2  25  per  vol. 

HOLYROOD  EDITION:  48  Vols.,  Brown  Cloth,  with  2000 
Illustrations,  75  cents  per  vol. ;  Half  Morocco,  Gilt  Tops, 
$1  50  per  vol. ;  Half  Morocco,  Extra,  $2  25  per  vol. 

POPULAR  EDITION:  24  Vols.  (two  vols.  in  one),  Green 
Cloth,  with  2000  Illustrations,  $1  25  per  vol.;  Half  Moroc- 
co, $2  25  per  vol. ;  Half  Morocco,  Extra,  $3  00  per  vol. 

\Vaverley;  Guy  Mannering;  The  Antiquary ;  Rob  Roy; 
Old  Mortality ;  The  Heart  of  Mid -Lothian  ;  *A  Legend  "of 
Montrose;  The  Bride  of  Lammermoor ;  The  Black  Dwarf; 
Ivanhoe;  The  Monastery;  The  Abbot;  Kenilworth;  The 
Pirate ;  The  Fortunes  of  Nigel ;  Peveril  of  the  Peak  ;  Quen- 
tin  Durward;  St.  Ronan's  Well;  Redgauntlet ;  The  Betroth- 
ed ;  The  Talisman  ;  Woodstock  ;  Chronicles  of  the  Canon- 
gate,  The  Highland  Widow,  &c. ;  The  Fair  Maid  of  Perth  ; 
Anne  of  Geierstein  ;  Count  Robert  of  Paris ;  Castle  Danger- 
ous; The  Surgeon's  Daughter;  Glossary. 


HARPKK  &  BBOTIIEHS  will  send  any  of  the  above  worts  b;>  mail, postage 
prepaid,  to  any  part  of  the  United  States,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


REC'DLD-URt\ 
SEP 


